


Like Everything I’ve Ever Lost

by compo67, FaeGentry



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Banter, Bottom Jared, Breathplay, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Consensual Kink, Cousin Incest, Dom Jensen Ackles, Domestic Fluff, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Facial Shaving, Family Dynamics, Feels, Happy Ending, Holidays, Home for Christmas, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, Lawyer Jensen Ackles, M/M, Mutual Pining, New England, Oral Sex, POV Jared Padalecki, Pining, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Schmoop, Slice of Life, Smoking, Social drinking, Song: WAP (Cardi B ft. Megan Thee Stallion), Sub Jared, Top Jensen, Unrequited Love, drag queen jared padalecki, fisherman jensen ackles, incest but not really, lobsterman jensen ackles, old money
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28785762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeGentry/pseuds/FaeGentry
Summary: Jared gobbles up men the way ordinary men gobble up peanuts. This is what he tells himself at this year’s fantastic family Christmas party in Kennebunkport, Maine hosted by his Aunt Georgina, his mother’s eldest sister.Featuring bitter, jaded, drag queen Jared, plus stoic, adopted cousin, lawyer turned lobster/fisherman Jensen--this is the kinky, queer, absurd, tragically hilarious Hallmark holiday movie the world needs right now.Complete with references to Bridget Jones' Diary, The Birdcage, Pride & Prejudice, Cher, and You've Got Mail. This fic also has J2 actively quoting WAP by Cardi B ft Megan Thee Stallion--it's a fabulous ride.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Comments: 111
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rieraclaelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rieraclaelin/gifts).



**Chapter One**

**Jared gobbles up men the way ordinary men gobble up peanuts.**

This is what he tells himself at this year’s _fantastic_ family Christmas party in Kennebunkport, Maine hosted by his Aunt Georgina, his mother’s eldest sister.

His married siblings, cousins, second cousins, third cousins, aunts, uncles, niblings, well, okay, so _everyone_ , keep rubbing it in his face that he’s forty-two (ouch) and— _say it with_ feeling— _single_. It isn’t Jared’s fault his last boyfriend couldn’t appreciate Jared’s years of wisdom and experience. Yes, he got dumped six months ago. Yes, he got dumped because knobhead was thirteen years younger and wanted to continue roaming around in other people’s pastures. But these people don’t need to know that. By ‘these people,’ he means his incredibly suffocating immediate family, and the whole extended East Coast family, plus all their spouses and various friends, friends of friends, and Kennebunkport’s cultural elite.

They already know that he’s moved here from Texas to live with Great Aunt Bunny, a woman in her eighties, to help her run her “little” 5-bedroom B&B over in Cape Arundel, a couple of blocks back from the beach, and that backs up to the woods.

Throughout this period of ‘adjustment,’ Jared often feels as if he’s crash-landed onto a different planet. One minute he was lip-syncing to timeless Cher songs, the next minute he was wearing the most hideous pair of snow boots, shoveling his heart out.

It seems like his cousin Meredith, Georgina’s eldest daughter, went around ahead of time this year and warned the children in attendance that Jared’s spinsterly fate would be theirs, too, if they didn’t behave.

Jared’s not being paranoid about that either. Not _this_ year.

At the buffet, eight-year-old Tessa offers him a seat at the kids’ table in case he, “doesn’t wanna sit alone.”

He doesn’t _want_ to accept pity from an eight-year-old, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The grown-up table looks increasingly hostile towards anyone without a partner, two-point-two children, and a handsomely-decorated patrician house replete with white picket fence. Jared is single, prefers dogs, and recently moved from San Antonio—where he had been perfectly unhappy, thank you—to live with his great aunt in freaking Cape Arundel.

San Antonio thrives on its diverse collection of cultures and prides itself on accessibility and civic engagement.

Kennebunkport is _not_ San Antonio.

Well, obviously.

Jared’s glad to see that this year’s East Coast Family Christmas Party _™_ isn’t _as_ homogeneous as previous gatherings, but the WASP vibes are a-ragin’.

Aunt Georgina accosts him at the prime rib.

A picture-perfect red-headed silver-screen clone in her prime, now a tastefully-touched-up strawberry-blonde Martha Stewart clone in her dotage, Aunt Georgina’s sly, _just_ -this-edge-of-judgment smile can stun a man at twenty paces.

“You _must_ sit by us,” she croons, elegantly wielding the engraved-monogram heirloom serving fork, thankfully ignoring the matching carving knife. “Royce and Elizabeth are expecting, did your mother tell you?”

Jared slaps on the same damn smile he’s been using all week in preparation. It’s exhausting and it’s disgusting. Like using a condom more than once and pretending it’s fine, it’s fine, no, really, _it’s fine._ There’s a snowball’s chance in hell that Jared’s mother _wouldn’t_ tell him about a couple expecting a bundle of joy within a five hundred-mile-radius of her—or anyone she knows—much less anyone he’s related to. And Aunt Georgina _fucking_ knows it.

“ _Oh_ , I’m delighted for them,” Jared quips. He looks at the slices of prime rib Georgina deftly places on his plate. “Mm, this is _delish_. Nothing I love more than two hunks of beef.”

He leaves her with that lil’ nugget and accepts Tessa’s pity invite.

The kids’ table is a chaotic place, full of Machiavellian plotting, sinister motives, and threats of murder. But Jared just bought a Nintendo Switch last summer, so he connects on a better level this year with the wee ones. He maturely refrains from all of his dirty puns and snide remarks about how fitting it is for him to own something called a “Switch.” But he’s patient. He can save them for when today’s kids are older teens and reminiscing years from now about Ye Olde Antique Gaming Tech.

While the adults converse about world affairs, personal affairs, and other people’s affairs, the kids crowd around Jared—a (very) tall, approachable novelty to them.

Wilder, all of 1-2-3-4-slightly-sticky-fingers four, insists that he sit on Jared’s lap. This stirs up a weird sense of déja vu for Jared. The last time anyone asked to sit on his lap—well, never mind.

Ten-year-old twins Annabelle and Adrianna show Jared how to properly braid his hair. Nine-year-old Connor marvels at Jared’s ability to comprehend even the most basic functions of the Switch. Jared, in turn, rambles on about how difficult it’s been to find red ornaments in Animal Crossing and how Madeline, age eight, should never settle for a boy who doesn’t share his iPad during free time at school, because ‘that’s how they get you.’

Jared answers their questions as honestly and as age-appropriately as possible. He is _not_ ‘a homosexual,’ he’s ‘gay.’ Yes, this means he kisses boys—well, _men_ (mostly the strong, silent type, which are his and Taylor Swift’s downfalls, but alas). No, this doesn’t mean he thinks girls— _women_ — are yucky. He’s good friends with Tully, a self-identified ‘stone butch lesbian’ with the uncanny ability to fix any car, any time, anywhere, but who also pegged him like a rockstar a few years ago on a curious streak.

Okay, _that_ part he excludes. But he’s tired of the idea that inhabiting this body and these identities automatically means he finds women (or femme-identified folks) repulsive. Some of these small people may grow up as Friends Of Dorothy, and even though they only see him once-ish a year, maybe they’ll remember him and the example he set.

Or they’ll just remember that he developed a five-star island in Animal Crossing.

Connor leans on Jared’s shoulder, watching Jared attempt to fish.

“My dad’s a lawyer,” Connor mumbles. “What do you do?”

Ah, _yes,_ second-cousin Kyle, Connor’s father. Well, actually, Kyle _dropped_ his first name ten years ago in an effort to discard his (well-earned) frat-boy persona and grow into his pompous-upper-crust persona, like a hermit crab changing out its shell. Now, Kyle goes by his middle (read: mother’s maiden) name, Russell—“Call-me-Russ.”

This isn’t exhausting _at all_. Jared abandons fishing after he lets two fish go. His character trudges up the sandy beach. 

“What’d your dad tell you I do?” Jared wishes he could shake a tree and make money off the results.

Connor taps his chin. “He said you’re a dancer.”

“That’s generous,” Jared says, eyebrows raised. “Huh.”

“Are you?”

“I dance,” Jared admits. “But I’m more of a _performer_.”

“Oh.”

“You ever dress up and pretend you’re singing in front of a bunch of people?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, pretend that you do.” Jared hands his Switch over to Connor. “That’s what I do. In a dress, with a wig and makeup on. Here.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need an adult beverage. Do _not_ let the little ones get ahold of that. I’m trusting you, Connor. Don’t do me wrong.”

“Can I buy things?”

“Sure, knock yourself out.”

Jared collects a few plates, and separates the twins as they fight over the tube of Sephora-label lip gloss Jared sacrificed to them so they wouldn’t keep pulling at his hair. He repatriates the lip gloss and fishes around in his red Kate Spade bag for a tissue, since they were better applying it to their chins than their lips.

He might not be the only out queer person in the family, but he _is_ the only drag queen. And if the Spirit of Drag must be embodied by one person in this goddamned family, it’s going to be Jared, and he’s going to be _flawless._ This is what he tells himself, anyway.

The twins and Tessa convince him to do makeovers later. This helps keep the peace.

If only adult relationships worked that way. Arguing? Just do a makeover. Everything will be fine. Good foundation and blush clear the way for a simple, wonderful life.

This year, he decided to tone down his attire in favor of blending into the background. A few years ago, he showed up in an outfit where the only subdued thing about it was the feather boa. His vintage, v-neck, checkered-pattern Burberry sweater and charcoal, slim-fit Armani jeans pair well with his Louboutin ankle booties. His entire outfit is secondhand— _the vintage might be third-hand?_ —but he didn’t choose the luxe life, it chose him.

A two-and-a-half-inch heel? Conservative.

The way Uncle Edward pours vodka? Very, very liberal.

Jared thanks him for his service to humanity and takes his impromptu Cape Codder outside. He searches for a quiet place to drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney. This much time with The Family requires endurance. He finds a suitable spot out on the covered porch, on an all-weather loveseat glider, where the chill chases away spillover from inside Georgina’s house. Lighting up a cigarette, Jared tolerates the frigid temperature. 

He’s four months into his emigration from Texas. Bouncing between San Antonio, New Braunfels, and Austin, Jared kept a busy schedule rotating between gigs, men, and brunch. Kennebunkport, while it finally boasts one—count it, _one_ —queer bar, thanks to the old-guard bastards, it definitely _does not_ have a Drag Night. Ogunquit, on the other hand, has _six_. 

It’s not a terrible drive back and forth from Ogunquit to Kennebunk to Kennebunkport. He’s performed a couple of times at each queer bar in Ogunquit since his arrival, but it’s different. Different lighting, different stages, different acts, different crowds. And he can’t sustain his existence on one gig a week, especially once the tourist season dies down after the holidays. He scraped by in Texas. This? It ain’t scraping. It’s begging.

The whole point of moving was to help his eighty-something-year-old Great Aunt Bunny over in Cape Arundel, who, in a former life, must have been a Marine. She rises every morning at exactly 5:00, drinks coffee darker than the depths of the Atlantic, and takes showers cold enough to preserve meat. 

The only reason she needs help at all is due to her recent shoulder surgery, the recovery from which prevents her from chopping wood and shoveling the sidewalks for guests, much to her (vocal) annoyance. She put out the call for help to Georgina, who quickly dispersed the news among her sisters, including Jared’s mother.

Jared exhales a ring of smoke and runs a hand through his hair. 

He scratches his chin, mindful of the stubble there, and daydreams about beard burn. Celebrities and exes flit through his mind. He settles on Jason Momoa, because fucking Jason Momoa includes fucking on a _warm_ -weather beach and Jared could use some sun.

His third-cousin Keira interrupts his horny solitude. Still in college, Keira exudes an eagerness about the world Jared almost envies. He remembers when he used to be young and full of hope. 

“Fair warning,” she says, shivering in her understated Christmas sweater. “Blair wants to set you up with her friend. I guess friend has the hots for queens.”

Blair—Aunt Georgina’s lawyer’s daughter and family friend—pulls this every single year. Jared’s not sure how (or _where_ ) Blair finds single, gay men to throw at Jared whenever he visits Maine, but she does, and it’s always excruciating.

Jared extinguishes his current cigarette and takes a long pull from his drink. “Good Lord, help us all if she thinks _I’d_ date a chaser. Is she on my trail?”

Good thing he chose the booties today. If he needs to run, scale a fence, or climb a tree, he can.

Keira sits on the glider beside Jared. She inherited her mother’s good looks and her father’s level-headed nature, making her one of the few relatives he doesn’t actively avoid. She looks more and more like Halle Berry every year, it’s scary.

“Nah, you got maybe five minutes.”

Jared gives a fleeting grimace of consideration, the kind that one might give if presented with the options of cake, or death.

“Eh,” he quips, “that’s plenty of time.”

“Can I have one?” Keira nods at the unlit cigarette that casually appeared in his right hand. 

He lights up and shakes his head. “Nope. These are for destroying my lungs and my lungs only.”

“I smoke at school,” she counters. 

“Try again, Catwoman.”

“Ugh. You used to be cool, Jare.”

“That’s a damn lie and you know it. How’s school?”

“I’ve been asked that _sixteen_ times today. You’re number seventeen.”

“My lucky number.” He finishes his cocktail. “Tell me all the juicy details. I don’t wanna hear about your papers and shit. You make out with anyone in your sorority yet?”

“Maybe,” Keira chirps, with a giggle. “It was on a dare.”

“Oh, one of _those_. Was it Girl-Kissing o’Clock?”

“I’d do it again though, to be honest.”

“Good. Experiment. Be _thorough_.”

“I got into an argument with this douchebag TA.”

“Fisticuffs?”

“If I could punch him in the throat without getting expelled, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“His crime?”

“Touching my hair.”

Jared nods and offers his cigarette. “You get _one_.”

“This is almost out!”

“Take it or leave it, daah-ling,” he murmurs, trying on his sober New England accent.

Keira begrudgingly accepts the cigarette. Her first inhale isn’t long and her first exhale lacks the ‘it was either smoke or murder’ desperation. This gives Jared hope that whatever she’s smoking on campus doesn’t amount to a pack-a-day habit.

“You know who just got here?” Keira slyly starts going through Jared’s purse.

Thank goodness he switched bags this morning and excluded all the usual condoms, lube, cock rings, bullet vibes, nipple clamps, and joints. He only brought PG-13 essentials here, because he figured _someone_ would get a hold of his bag.

“Santa Claus?”

“Better,” Keira murmurs, compact mirror in one hand and Jared’s last tube of Lancôme Miracle Lip Gloss in the other. “Jensen’s here.”

The name immediately prompts an eye roll—one long enough for Jared’s eyes to take a bicycle tour of Europe. 

He grumbles, “Great. Just what every party needs. The wet blanket of my childhood.”

“Aren’t you cousins?”

“ _Adopted_ cousins,” Jared snips. “No blood relation, but a pain in the ass all the same.”

“ _I_ like him. I think he’s interesting.”

“How can you tell?” Jared rubs his temples. He’s managed to avoid most of The Family, including Jensen, these past four months. “The man speaks three words a year.”

Keira shrugs and touches up her eyelashes. “Sometimes he tells the kids a fishing story.”

Jared shakes his head. Keira’s too young to understand. She didn’t grow up with the man. He explains a little more, to educate her on the matter, and opines that anyone who goes to Harvard Law School, graduates, works for a decade as a litigator in Dallas, then suddenly chucks all that to become a lobsterman in coastal Southern Maine carries some serious baggage.

“But the world will never know,” Jared says, wishing he had something stronger than a cigarette. “Because getting him to talk is like getting me into a pair of Dockers. I _refuse_.”

The door to the house pops open and the devil himself walks out.

Jensen peers over at Keira and Jared. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his dark wash jeans instead of waving ‘hello.’ Jared sits back in the glider and allows Keira to initiate contact. She waves him over and calls out for him to join them, her tone undeniably friendly. 

As Jensen walks over, Jared eyes him, collecting details. 

Hot _damn_. 

Jensen’s filled out some, the extra weight looks good on him—adds a bit more to his frame. He walks confidently, boots heavy on the deck. The beard Jensen sports now reminds Jared of their four-year difference in age, but also makes Jared think: Oh, _Daddy_.

_What the fuck._

He won’t break his poker face. 

He hasn’t given Jensen the satisfaction in the past thirty years, so why start now?

Some people might describe Jensen as a cross between Jamie Dornan, Christian Bale, and Brad Pitt. They wouldn’t be far off the mark; Jared acknowledges that Jensen is _maybe, possibly, probably,_ one of the more conventionally-attractive men in their extended family network. Then again, Jensen _is_ adopted, so maybe he has that going for him. Genetic diversity for the win.

There’s just something about Jensen’s nose, the slight crook of it, combined with the chiseled jawline and full lips that sends dirty-bad-wrong feelings down Jared’s chest and straight to his nutcracker.

_However._

Jensen is—and always has been—one of those gorgeous people that doesn’t realize just how ridiculously good-looking he is.

Looking a little closer, Jared catches a glimpse of the painfully-introverted fourteen-year-old boy forced to look after Jared when Jared reached the appropriate age for “life experience” and “building character” working on the (married-into-the) family farm in the summer. The same fourteen-year-old boy who avoided saying more than two words at a time in Jared’s presence every summer for six years.

Every summer, like clockwork, Jared’s parents would foist him off into the care of Jensen’s parents, Jared’s Aunt Sloane and Uncle Ellison, on their farm outside of Dallas. For three months every summer, Jared did chores and helped take care of the horses—that part he actually didn’t mind. But for three months, he endured the “supervision” of his cousin Jensen, four years his elder, who always hovered and hardly spoke.

Over those summers, they spent almost every minute of every day together on the farm. Wherever Jared wandered, Jensen inevitably, by parental mandate, followed. Privacy? What privacy? They lived in each other’s back pockets—like it or not. To break up the monotony of chores and shit, Jared tried his best to crack jokes. The one and only joke Jensen ever came up with was the incredibly crass and unoriginal “pull my finger” bit. He can picture Jensen using that bit now in the presence of Aunt Georgina.

Jared wonders how Jensen survives these parties. It’s two weeks before Christmas and there’s still second-cousin-once-removed Harper’s Christmas ‘At Home’ next week down on the North Shore in Massachusetts, north of Boston. Based on scraps of gossip Jared collected while at the buffet, word is that Harper hired a professional ice sculptor and an artist who works exclusively in pâté. That sort of thing might be _de rigueur_ in New York when Harper lived there, but Harper’s persistence trying to carry on that level of _haute-couture-artiste_ madness in New England’s more-conservative circles—even for Marblehead—has been… 

Well. It’s been fascinating to watch, at least. Jared can _hardly_ wait.

One of the few Texas cousins to move “back” to Maine, Jensen lives and works full-time as a lobsterman out of Cape Porpoise Harbor from June to January, and the rest of the year at some other job Jared’s mother and aunts have never explained. He’s probably moonlighting as a male model or a television actor on some long-running series and no one’s ever caught him.

Jared remembers being sixteen years old, a rising high school junior, an angst-filled bundle of raging hormones and poor impulse control—a potent combination amplified by his mouth. He arrived on the farm that sixth summer—Jensen’s last—to find Jensen, twenty years old, in the throes of pure, pouty twinkdom, and distracted by law school applications.

Apart from compulsory family events, Jared and Jensen remained indifferent strangers. Jensen had his law career. Jared had free drink tickets and Cher’s entire catalogue memorized.

Either way, Jared has successfully avoided Jensen in the past four months here in Maine, which would make _this_ their first reunion in two years. 

Dressed in a cable-knit sweater the color of pine trees, Jensen looks every bit the part of rugged fisherman. His beard has more gray than Jared remembers from his last family function two years ago.

“Sit with us,” Keira coos, looping her arm around Jared. “Join the cool kids.”

Jensen makes direct eye contact with Jared.

Jared nods, looks away, and shrugs. 

“The more the merrier,” Jared says, with a sigh. “But I need another drink.”

Keira is less than subtle as she volunteers to get Jared a refill. She elbows Jared, winks, and says, “I’ll let you two catch up. Be right back.”

Light from the inside of the house spills out onto the deck when she opens the door. It also sounds like Aunt Grace has started wrangling people together to sing Christmas carols. It’s either that or Miss Lily has had a few too many refreshers on her rye highballs.

Regret hangs heavy on Jared’s shoulders for not bringing a joint. Maybe one of the teenagers inside can hook him up.

As usual, Jensen says nothing. He sits leaning forward, legs spread, hands clasped. His eyes stay glued on Jared’s shoes.

“My eyes are up here,” Jared quips and snaps his fingers, pointing with his right hand. “Here.”

Jensen snorts and turns his attention to the snow-covered backyard.

“ _Oh_ , like you’ve got better places to be.”

Once again, Jensen doesn’t actually provide a verbal response. He just shrugs and rolls his eyes. 

Cigarette number four. Jared’s too sober for this. 

“Fine.” He waves Jensen off. “Go inside. Let them eat you alive. Ain’t no one forcing you to be here… this time.”

They sit without a word between them for… Two. Eternal. Minutes. 

Jensen isn’t the only person in their extended family to have been adopted as a baby. But he _is_ the only person who can truly get under Jared’s skin without even speaking. Unable to stand the silence and unwilling to cede his respite area, Jared unleashes his secret weapon: his mouth. He can give stellar out-of-this-world blowjobs _and_ talk for hours. Not at the same time though. Not usually. Depends on the blowjob, really.

He tells Jensen all about his trip to Manhattan last year, where he would much rather be at the moment. About the sales at Neiman’s and how tidy the clearance racks were despite the holiday season. How a couple of months before that, he blew one of the Louboutin runway models backstage during Fashion Week, then again at the afterparty while the model’s boyfriend watched, and was gifted the ankle booties he’s wearing today. About how that might not have been one of his proudest moments as an adult, but he likes quality. And that quality comes at a premium.

On and on, Jared lets his mouth get a workout in a way he hasn’t since the move east.

There aren’t that many family members he feels comfortable speaking to on a personal level, but a running monologue of _every last thing_ that flits through his mind while Jensen sits in silence remains their ‘schtick.’

After graduating from high school, Jared never returned to Jensen’s parents’ farm, beyond the occasional maternally-mandated command appearance for a birthday or anniversary. Jared skipped college in favor of going to Los Angeles, where he embarked on a tour of sin and cynicism. Of course, he lived out every possible dream and fantasy, including bussing tables, mowing the lawns of millionaires, dishwashing, being a driving instructor, working as a ranch hand, and barista’ing.

When he could afford it, he took performing arts classes at a community college.

As incredibly cheesy as it sounds, the years flew by this way. 

Jared sighs and stretches. He tilts his head back. His breath looks like smoke even though he just finished a cigarette.

“I know everyone thinks I’m washed up,” he murmurs, the volume of his voice as soft as the light snow now falling. “And maybe my dreams are a bit small to the rest of ‘em. _They_ all wanna be perfect.”

He’s never felt perfect.

But that’s nothing new to Jensen, who has been listening to Jared’s motor mouth for, literally, decades, albeit usually only once or twice a year now that they’re not stuck at the farm together for the summer anymore. Jared’s ability to sustain a full day of monologue, amidst the exhausting physical labor all day, every day, was truly remarkable. (Not that Jensen remarked upon it. Ever.)

“But I wanna be ‘okay.’ I don’t even wanna be _great_ all the time. I just wanna be… happy with what I have.”

It’s a vague sense of existence, but it works.

“Bunny’s doing me a solid letting me ‘work’ for her. Free room and board as long as I spend four hours a day chopping firewood or shoveling snow?” Jared lights up another cigarette. “Let’s be real—it’s win/win. But I ain’t getting any younger. Lancôme doesn’t have plans to bottle up eternal youth and sell it to me at an enormous profit anytime soon. Such is life, I guess.”

Reality bites. Drag makes it feel slightly more tolerable.

“Sometimes I think about trying to run Bunny’s place. Seems straightforward enough. I have a room, you wanna stay in it, give me money, thanks. But I’m just not interested in the business side. I wouldn’t actually mind changing the sheets, cleaning the rooms, chopping firewood, whatever. Fuck, I’d even learn how to cook and make the actual breakfast. I could buy a cute little apron that says, _‘POLISH SAUSAGE.’_ ”

On his very last cigarette, Jared looks at it in his hand. It burns bright against the indigo of evening. 

“I’m better at the hands-on— _heh_ —kind of work. Not so much the responsible-grown-up stuff. Well. It’s fine. Eventually, I’ll land on my life’s purpose. Things will work out in the end. At least I get to see snow again.” He puts out his cigarette in his makeshift ashtray, a forgotten flower pot. “Maybe I just need to take a hit of acid and talk to the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.”

He stands up and stretches.

Jensen’s eyes follow him.

“Well,” Jared sighs, nodding towards the house. “I know you’re probably two words away from your yearly quota, so I’m sure my secrets are safe with you.”

Jensen nods.

Then he stands up and takes a few long, unfazed strides towards Jared. He gets close enough that Jared picks up on the scent of saltwater and his spicy cologne.

Jensen opens the door for Jared, complete with a motion of his hand for Jared to head in first. Will wonders never cease?

May the Spirit of Christmas help Jared. 

He might just have to don his gay apparel and _fa-la-la-la-la_ right the fuck out of here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**True to form, Blair managed to convince her friend Ensley to fly in from Nebraska for the holidays with the promise that Ensley would meet and date a real-life drag queen.**

Blair, all of twenty-three years old and a super-senior at her Someday-Eventually-Alma-Mater, latches onto Jared the moment he steps back into the house. On the way to their predetermined destination, Blair explains how she met Mysterious Friend Ensley, a cornfield kid from conservative Nebraska, at a YA Lit conference in Chicago last semester. She’s certain that they’ll make a _great_ couple. Blair doesn’t even come up to Jared’s shoulder, and yet somehow maintains an impressive, vice-like grip on his arm as she guides him towards the eggnog setup.

She cuts through the sea of family, friends, friends of friends, and members of Kennebunkport’s cultural elite like a hot knife through room-temperature butter. She practically mows down Great-Aunt Abbie and Great-Uncle Charles. Bouncers at Manhattan nightclubs could take lessons from Blair in crowd management.

All the while, Jensen inexplicably follows after them, ever the human shadow.

If Jared had a choice, he’d head straight for the bar. That’s quite possibly the _only_ straight thing about him.

From a makeshift “sound station” in the corner of the massive living room manned by honorary DJ Uncle Everett, Johnny Mathis croons on about his affinity for jingle bells… from vintage vinyl 45s on an impeccably-maintained turntable enigmatically paired with a state-of-the-art Bose speaker system.

Jared could use some jingling to _his_ bells right about now. 

Ensley looks and acts exactly like the grown-up, human version of Casper the Friendly Ghost—innocent, naïve, and _exceedingly_ earnest. 

He’d almost give Jared a toothache if it weren’t for one small detail.

Words stage a successful coup against Jared’s brain and launch themselves from Jared’s tongue without a second of hesitation.

“What the fuck,” he blurts out, looking from Ensley to Blair. “Is he even _legal?_ ”

Oh. Shit.

Blair rolls her eyes and gives Jared a quick punch in the arm.

“Of _course_ ,” she hisses, then changes her tone on a dime—from _I will fucking murder you with the blunt end of a candy cane_ to _my friend is a precious cinnamon roll_. “Ens just turned twenty-one last week. Ens, this is who I’ve been telling you about, this is Jared.”

Why didn’t she just suckerpunch him in the nutcracker, for fuck’s sake?

Twenty-what? _What?_ What is happening? This can’t be the right Christmas party. He probably fell on the sidewalk outside and this is all some terrible coma dream. Maybe he’s a queer reincarnation of George Bailey—but what poor casting. He could never bring the same stage presence as James Stewart. And who’d have guessed Dean Martin would be playing so loudly in the background? 

_Where the fuck is Keira with his drink?_

Ensley extends an eager hand out to Jared. He’s wearing a hideous ironic-unironic ugly sweater with a reindeer smack in the middle of his abdomen, its googly eyes staring straight into Jared’s soul. 

“Oh, _hi!_ ” Ensley chirps. “Oh my _gosh_. I’m so happy to… to meet you!” 

Jared hopes Grandma Opal spiked the eggnog. He shakes Ensley’s hand, then immediately reaches for the large, crystal punchbowl on the table next to them. With cutthroat efficiency, Jared serves himself and knocks it back the way he might knock back shots with free drink tickets after a gig.

“Charmed,” Jared says, with a hiccup. He looks into his empty glass, disappointed by the absence of any form of liquor. “Damn. It’s clean.”

About as subtle as Keira, Blair grabs onto Jared’s sleeve and yanks him forward. 

“Ens just _loves_ drag.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe you can invite him to one of your shows?”

Before Jared can voice a resounding, “Fuck no,” Ensley cuts in.

In his very eager, very chipper way, he does some blurting of his own.

“Drag is amazing,” he says, in a way Jared genuinely finds endearing. “It’s an art.”

Maybe Jared could stand to have some part of his body grow three sizes too big this Christmas. It’s a toss-up between his heart, head, or cock, but… compliments are nice.

Until.

Ensley adds, “You’re so _tall,_ just like RuPaul.”

Jensen snorts into his own cut-crystal punch cup of eggnog.

Jared’s half-smile dies an excruciatingly painful death in the clutches of RuPaul’s ghost. He slugs Jensen in the arm.

Standing with his shoulders back, chest out, Jared slaps on yet another used-condom smile. 

“Aside from our height, RuPaul and I share _nothing_ in common,” he quips through his teeth. He leans in a touch to hit home his next point. “I don’t know what Blair told you, but I am _literally_ twice your age and it’s _not_ happening.”

Whatever holiday rendezvous Blair planned for her friend, it’s not going to find a home with Jared. It’s going to scuttle off to a more age-appropriate, squeaky-clean Hallmark movie, thank you very much.

Ensley’s face flushes. He looks to Blair for help, like a man drowning in a riptide’s undertow.

Jared addresses Blair.

“Y’all should have stayed in Iowa.”

“Nebraska,” Blair snaps.

“Whatever,” Jared huffs. “This ain’t amateur hour. If you think I’m desperate enough to rob the cradle, you’re wrong. Y’all might think I’m a fuckup, but I do actually have _ethics_.”

“But…”

“No.” Jared slams his absurdly-tiny eggnog-bereft cut-crystal punch cup on the table. “I’m tired of ‘Helpful’ Straight People trying to mash their _poor_ gay relatives together with other _poor_ gay people.” He turns to Ensley. “You’re sweet. Honestly, you’re adorable. And you’ll make some very lucky, deserving muscle daddy very happy one day, but honey, I’m tossing you back. Consider it a community service to the fellow men of your generation—I have single-handedly saved you from the claws of an aging queen old enough to be your mother. Sorry you wasted your trip.”

Of course, Jared’s coma dream (nightmare) follows every overly-dramatic movie in existence.

The entire length of the ornate-yet-tasteful living room goes silent for... Five. Full. Seconds.

Even Burl Ives’ ghost can’t save Jared from the stares, glares, and gawks of everyone within three miles.

In the corner of his eye, Jared spots Aunt Georgina and her cronies—the Ladies From Church—flock towards their circle of Inappropriate Behavior, ready to start damage control and hand Jared his ass. In the nicest, politest, most passive-aggressive White Lady way possible, of course.

He should have stayed holed up at Bunny’s tonight and experimented with his newest Bad Dragon acquisition. It would have been infinitely less stressful, far more enjoyable, and productive as all hell. Just how many inches of handcrafted, vividly-colorful silicone in the shape of a demon dick _can_ he fit up his…

“Ass,” Jensen miraculously grumbles, grabbing Jared by the arm. “Go easy on the kid. Jesus Christ. _Move._ ” To Ensley, he nods in parting, “Sorry.”

And just like that, Jensen not only reaches his quota for words spoken in a calendar year, but he’s spent them on little ol’ Jared. _How touching._

Jensen places his left hand over the small of Jared’s back, and presses his fingers into a spot that would, in any other situation, signal something very, very different. Instead, Jensen steers Jared towards the butler’s pantry, with the salon-coiffed, artfully-silver-maned, be-pearled hounds of hell on their heels.

Before Jensen closes the door, he makes the “one minute” hand gesture in Aunt Georgina’s encroaching direction.

Jared shrugs off Jensen’s hand and turns to face him.

“Hey,” Jared snaps, voice louder than he means it to be. “No one puts Baby in the pantry. What the _fuck?_ ”

The butler’s pantry is, thank fuck, blessedly empty. Trays of already-passed hors d’oeuvres sit on granite countertops, accompanied by a pack of cigarettes that must belong to one of the staff in charge of making Aunt Georgina’s celebration of the season that much easier. Would they notice if Jared took a few? Would a few be enough?

Would a few be enough to smother the smell of saltwater and sandalwood?

Jared starts with one. He lights up, hands shaking more than he ever wants to admit. Fuck Aunt Georgina’s no-smoking-in-the-house rules. He cares not for the rules set down by the cis-hets. Not right now.

Jensen stands a foot away from Jared, arms folded over his chest. Brow furrowed, he eyes Jared with a sense of calm that comes off as self-righteous and it fucking pisses Jared off even more.

“Great,” Jared scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re just gonna shove me into the closet— _thanks_ for that—and _not_ -talk yet _again_. Can you believe her? She does this every year and every year they get younger and younger. Not that any of y’all care, because the only thing worse than some queer is some _single_ queer. Sorry I’m not one of those _normal_ gays with the clean-cut husband and preppy kids, who’s just like a real straight couple with a lot more anal—”

“You don’t shut up, do you?”

“No!” Jared raises his hands in frustration. “Ugh! Not everyone wants to be the very model of modern toxic masculinity with all that stoicism bullshit, Jack!” He takes a long pull from his borrowed cigarette. “I like how everyone pretends it’s just fine for Blair to throw these _kids_ at me. He’s half my age and no one sees how fucked up that is? You gonna stand there and tell me this isn’t a big deal and sweep the shit under the carpet like everyone else?”

Oh, shit.

He used The Nickname.

Jensen shakes his head and looks away, chest rising and shoulders tense. The only people who call him Jack are his mother, and a version of Jared from what feels like three lifetimes ago.

The pervasive silence inside the pantry moonlights as a ball-busting dominatrix. It grabs Jared by the hair (in a bad way), causing his heart to skip multiple beats.

Why is he so worked up?

Couldn’t he have gone the calm, cool, collected-and-detached route rejecting Ensley and putting an end to Blair’s ridiculous matchmaking attempts? He could have dismissed the youngsters with calculated facial expressions and just the right tone of voice in a handful of words. Or he could have been quietly witty about it.

“Well,” Jensen says, rubbing his beard. “You haven’t changed much.”

May the spirit of Bea Arthur help Jared get through tonight. He sighs and puts out the last of his appropriated cigarette into a half-eaten caviar toast point.

“That’s rich coming from _you,_ ” he snips, leaning against the countertop. Now it’s his turn to fold his arms defensively over his chest. “Don’t think you’re doing me any favors sweeping _me_ under the rug, either.”

Jensen speaks in a perpetual rumble, like it carries the crash of water against the coast. “I’m just saying… you didn’t have to nuke the kid from space.”

“It’s _orbit_ , not space. If you’re gonna quote Our Lord and Savior Sigourney Weaver, get it _right._ ”

“That’s what you care about right now?”

“It’s pretty much all I care about, thank you.” Jared’s eyes narrow as he winds up his pitch. “What’s with the words, huh? You get ‘em on sale and just decide to fuck with me tonight? I’m honored. You’ve only spent the last— _how many?_ —years ignoring me?” 

Jensen leans back against the counter opposite Jared. He keeps both hands on the countertop, bracing himself for who-the-fuck knows. Maybe he expects Jared to completely lose it and break out into a Britney Spears mashup routine, which would be ridiculous; Jared retired that routine five years ago.

Silence settles back in, lulling Jared into an unsettling sense of time and space. He’s three steps away from the world’s most infuriating man and five steps away from the world’s most suffocating display of Christmas cheer. If he listens closely enough, he can hear Frank Sinatra pleading for people to have themselves a merry little Christmas.

“I never meant to ignore you,” Jensen says, clearing his throat. He offers the opportunity to make and maintain eye contact. Jared declines. “I truly didn’t.”

“Nine words.” Jared counts his fingers. “Almost a new record.”

“The kid just needed a break.”

“Yeah, a break in reality.” This time, Jared picks up the eye contact and runs with it. “Who are you to be preaching, Jack? Huh? Who the _hell_ are you to stand there and lecture me like we’re kids again and I’m about to jump in the lake?”

“Because if I’m around, I’m supposed to watch over you,” Jensen retorts, more force in his tone than before. “And I thought maybe you finally, finally understood why I couldn’t…”

The words look like they knock against Jensen’s straight, white teeth before he forces them back. 

“Never mind,” Jensen mutters and moves for the doorway. 

Jared, an expert in dodging rent, commitment, and phone calls from his mother, dives in front of the pantry door. 

“No,” he snaps at Jensen. “ _No_ —you don’t get to shove me in here and then decide to see yourself out. You thought I could understand what, Counselor?”

Standing only inches away from Jared doesn’t faze Jensen in the slightest. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t pull back, and he doesn’t turn away.

It’s a quality that probably made him a carbon copy of some John Grisham main character.

That and his voice.

“That’s _Former_ Counselor,” Jensen murmurs. “Why should I finish my sentence?”

“Because I want you to.”

Jensen raises his eyebrows. The briefest hint of a smile tugs at his shapely mouth. “That’s it? Because you want me to?”

Jared leans against the door, hands behind him. He offers nothing more than a casual shrug. “Yeah, Jack.” He brings his voice down to a volume no other sound can touch. “Because I want you to.”

One of Maine’s most redeeming qualities is the access to three thousand miles of tidal coastline. Inlets. Bays. Coves. Saltwater marshes and ocean. It isn’t just about the water, either, but the jagged, jutting rocks and pink-granite cliffs. Short, steep slopes. Rocky beaches.

There’s got to be more than just pretentious snobbery and superficial bullshit in this state. And Jared needs more than just a pretty face. He craves substance.

His first visit back to Blowing Cave Park— _the name_ still _makes Jared snicker_ —to watch the waves break over the rocks made him inhale the first full breath of fresh air he’s had in the longest time. He couldn’t wait to go back up to Cape Elizabeth, Two Lights, and Portland Head.

Jensen kisses Jared.

It’s all bite and heat. Salt and sea. Sting and slice.

Jared's mouth opens at the first rough request. He wraps his arms around and over Jensen’s shoulders and hauls him in. Jensen’s fingertips smooth over Jared’s cheeks and ease behind Jared’s jaw, thumbs at Jared’s dimples, then his long fingers curl at the nape of Jared’s neck.

It’s a kiss that sings of pain—brutal and forceful.

And yet, somehow, still exquisitely beautiful.

Jared loses his collective _shit_ the second Jensen’s thumb strokes past Jared’s eyebrow. He returns each kiss with a level of enthusiasm that makes Jensen groan and lock his fingers into fistfuls of Jared’s hair. Jensen’s beard scrapes against Jared’s stubble—all friction and spark.

Jared catches Jensen’s bottom lip and bites down to send a very clear message.

_He likes pain._

“Brat,” Jensen huffs, with a flash of his teeth, breathless.

“Shut up,” Jared hisses.

This ain’t no time for words.

Until Jensen pulls away.

The whiplash strikes hard enough to make an impact on Jared’s chest. He blinks, sucks in shards of air, and freezes.

“Jack?”

This got heavy real quick. Heavier than mostly-empty tables and stares of apathy. Weird how that happens. Or as Keira would say, “It be like that sometimes.”

Jensen thumps Jared’s chest, but doesn’t take his hand away. His eyes, expressive and intense, search Jared’s. It feels like they’re seconds away from diving off a cliff, not shut away inside Aunt Georgina’s butler’s pantry.

“You’re sure?” Jensen tugs on Jared’s sweater.

Jared’s exhale is more laugh than gasp. Because laughing is the only thing he can do.

“Yeah.”

“Well, we can’t.”

“ _What?_ Why the fuck not?”

“No, no,” Jensen says, in a rush, with a quick smile. “I mean, we can’t do this _here_.”

_“...oh.”_

For the first time in the history of ever, a conversation ends where Jensen uses more words than Jared.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**Guests who stay at The Arundel House Bed & Breakfast in the winter expect a holly, jolly, happy holiday.**

Every single B&B on the coast worth its salt devotes hours and hours of time putting together the perfect Christmas Experience for its escapist-enthusiasts. People stay at the B&B ‘to get away from it all,’ or so Jared’s been told (repeatedly) even in four short months.

They pay top-dollar to stay in lodging that delivers every single sappy-saturated Hallmark CEO’s wet dream. And since Jared’s now part of that festive wet dream, he must also sacrifice one Tickle Me Elmo doll to the Christmas Gods. There’s got to be coziness, romance, and nostalgia up the wazoo. Everyone must do their part—guests are gonna have the _hap—hap—_ happiest Christmas if it kills them.

Which is how Jared finds himself standing on a ladder whilst wearing his second-favorite pair of Doc Martens knee-high boots, the flat-heeled ones with the belt buckles, adding yet more decorations to the twelve-foot warm-white-micro-LED pre-lit faux Balsam Fir tree in the foyer. Scenes from his tragic death—impaled by a Christmas tree—play in his mind as his balance on the ladder grows increasingly questionable. Strategically-placed scent diffusers deployed out of sight suffuse the space with the gentle aroma of fir and cedar. Every single detail must meet Bunny’s stringent standards. If he does meet his untimely end because of this damn tree, at least he’ll leave behind a beautiful, pine-forest-scented corpse. Last year, Jared spent Christmas in a generic Manhattan hotel room, a little worse for wear and with no tree in sight.

He can’t remember the last time he put up a tree for the holidays—real or fake. 

Bunny had him collect and prune evergreen brush from the back of the property the week of Thanksgiving and showed him how to bind it up to make real pine garland, which now adorns the fence along the road. She told him, ‘Real outside, let it get rained or snowed on to keep it fresh and looks ‘right’ to folks passing.” For twenty minutes, Bunny lectured him on Christmas trees and Christmas tree accessories. A fake tree inside is fine because she will be _damned_ before paying an arm and a leg every year for a fresh-cut tree _that_ tall and, worse, leaves everyone sweeping up pine needles off the damned floor every hour on the hour. Then every morning, there’s mopping up the sap that’s dripped over the last 24 hours, as the tree dies a slow, withering death crucified in a precarious stand, limped along with well-water infused with corn syrup in an attempt to stave off the cruel-but-inevitable end.

Brutal. Just like Jared’s romantic life. 

He agrees with Bunny on a number of issues. Instead of dragging in fresh problems, store-bought problems are fine. Their time is much better spent with a cup of coffee, sitting indoors where it’s warm and dry. Seeing as how Bunny doesn’t shy away from chopping her own firewood (shoulder surgery notwithstanding), if there’s a task she skips in favor of coffee and a moment of relaxation, he maintains a running list of the chores she hates. If only Jared had adopted this practice twenty or thirty years ago. Why all this knowledge waited to sink in until his forties remains an infuriating mystery of the universe.

There’s a reason Jared’s mother ‘voluntold’ _him_ to make the trip “Downeast” to tend to her own grandfather’s middle-sister in her post-surgery time of need. Jared has no idea how he ended up his mother’s son, when the Universe _clearly_ intended him to be in Great-Aunt Bunny’s direct line. 

He tells Bunny that if another guest comes up to him and asks him how many balls he’s hung, he’s done. He quits. He’s walking out. These boots? Made for walking. She tells him to go right ahead, and to let her know when he does so she can put the kettle on and make sure there are enough fresh muffins to go around to feed his replacement.

About as cheerful as Gordon Ramsay on a bad day, Bunny walks out of the foyer in a huff. She’s walked around the place this way all day—still pissed off by whatever Great-Uncle Endicott said the night before about ‘older women’ working. Seems like everyone engaged in a minor scuffle at Aunt Georgina’s fête this year. 

Jared surveys his work and tries not to think about the distance between himself and the ground. All things considered, he should be immune to any fear of heights, but _nope._ And nothing is more inelegant than a queen taking a tumble.

He never thought he’d say it in any context outside of sex or perfecting The Tuck for drag, much less in any context involving a gigantic Christmas tree or at the behest of an agéd female relative, but he’s damn good at arranging balls.

Satisfied with his work, he very carefully descends the ladder. He is now free to run outside and smoke through some solid anxiety and chronic overthinking after ninety minutes of being too close to tinsel to light one up.

This is his very first time after any family party waking up one hundred percent sober. He wants to kill it with fire.

Every memory from the night before stays sharp, crisp, and clear in his mind. It’s irritating as fuck. Not because he did not enjoy the events of last night, but because he hasn’t been able to fully process them yet.

It’s a little much. And Bing Crosby dry-humping his way through yet another Christmas classic does not a good environment make for serious introspection.

Jared folds up the ladder, puts on his coat, and hauls his shapely ass back to the supply shed behind the main house. Snow continues to pile up, as it hasn’t stopped snowing all morning. Bunny grumbled something at breakfast about her elbow telling her it’d snow for the rest of the day. Pushing through the fresh accumulation, Jared trudges over to the woodpile. He sits on his favorite log— _too easy_ —crosses his legs, and lights the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

One of the couples staying at the inn—Roger and Hileah—test out snowshoes on the opposite side of the lawn. They’re a cute couple. They seem to tolerate each other well enough. There’s probably more to any relationship than just tolerating the other person, but Jared has yet to discover it.

But that’s what it is, isn’t it? If people felt comfortable enough to really boil it down, that’s what any long term relationship is—choosing to spend time with a person whose behaviors are less repulsive than anyone else’s. 

Jared tosses his first cigarette into a tomb of snow. With any luck, his indiscretion today will go unnoticed come springtime. He almost never ditches his butts _—too easy—_ into the face of Mother Nature. But today’s _different._ He’s seven kinds of tense and none of them good. This is also a matter of survival. If the snow picks up and traps him under a pile of powder, at least someone will be able to find him if they follow the trail of Capri Magenta 120s filters.

He taps his chin before lighting up a replacement cigarette. He’s almost out of Capris, and they’re harder to find in Maine; he’s had to ration them by filling in with Virginia Slims, which feel déclassé. 

He should really look for a therapist.

He might as well. There won’t be much else to do all winter when the weather gets bad. Just therapy, carefully curating his social media accounts, and experimenting with his collection of sex toys.

It might help. If he can take a ten-inch dildo shaped like a unicorn horn, he can take a little therapy. Maybe _a lot_ of therapy.

Half an hour later, the weather reminds Jared of the very real threats of both hypothermia and dry skin. He retreats into the main house, washes up, then takes his post at the front desk. Bunny's got him in the hot seat today because she might stab a bitch at any moment and that can't be good for business. 

Ordinarily, this would be the most boring and tedious part of Jared's day. Today, though? He'd like everyone to please leave him alone with his thoughts. He doesn't care if people need extra towels or shampoo, he needs ten minutes to himself to _think,_ goddammit.

He changes the radio station on the ancient stereo system in the foyer to the contemporary Christmas music station. The last notes of Mariah Carey's siren song wrap up and transition to Jared's preferred song of the season: “Last Christmas” by Wham! 

Wistful. Depressing. Stubbornly hopeful. It’s all about the Yearning… _(™)_.

Jared runs the little Shark cordless stick vacuum the area around the front desk, answers the phone, and tends to a few guests who want this, that, and the other or recommendations for dinner. Time rolls on until he finally sits down to fold clean towels so that he can continue to Yearn _—(™)—_ his little heart out. Questions line up in Jared’s head and demand to be acknowledged, like the needy little twink he used to be a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

Jensen’s gay.

Or, perhaps, it’s more accurate to say that Jensen is attracted to other men.

That’s new. And not common knowledge. Jared could smack himself. He’s starting to sound like his mother in his internal monologue. _‘Not common knowledge’_ is the Prissy White Lady way of saying that Jensen’s not out.

And that presents more than a few issues.

Issues start to nudge past questions, pushy bastards that they are.

Can he get involved with someone who isn’t out? Well, he _can_ do a lot of things. Maybe the better question is _should_ he get involved with someone who isn’t out?

This someone also happens to be his _cousin_ —biologically-related or not—and oh _boy,_ take a number, because there’s a lot to unpack _there._

And why didn’t they go further than all the hot-and-heavy sucking face last night?

Bunny and her staff keep The Arundel House Inn running smoothly year-round. The property has been in the family since glaciers formed the coast of Maine. Only within the past three decades did Bunny convert the mansion into The Arundel House—a historic-home-style B&B.

After her husband, Great-Uncle Niles, passed away, substantial renovations in the 1990s, and raising the ire of family members like Aunt Georgina voicing ‘concerns’ about taking a beloved family home and converting it ‘to trade,’ Bunny dedicated herself to the life of an innkeeper. With the looks and wit of Dame Judi Dench, Bunny also could have enjoyed a successful career playing various European monarchs on the big screen and in legitimate theater.

But alas, she fell in love with the Inn.

Tapping the copper service bell on the counter, she presently interrupts Jared’s studious, backbreaking work folding the same hand towel over and over again. 

“Go,” she prompts him, motioning away from the desk. “I’ll cover.”

“Don’t muscle me out of my job,” Jared huffs, tossing his hair back. “I’m on for another hour. Then I head to my mother’s annual turkey curry buffet to meet up with Mark Darcy.”

Bunny looks to the heavens for patience, always a good sign; also an indication that she’s seen “Bridget Jones” and gets the reference. She forces her way behind the desk, and showing no signs whatsoever of recovering from major joint surgery, kicks his ass to the proverbial curb.

“You’ve got rounds tonight,” Bunny murmurs, flipping through the local paper. Great-Uncle Niles had been a doctor, stubbornly refusing to retire to private practice, staying on-staff and on-call at the hospital until Bunny gently, lovingly, and politely threatened to murder him in his sleep.

“A gig,” Jared corrects. He leans against the desk, on the peon side this time. “Aunt Bun, they’re called ‘gigs.’”

“Well, get to it. I know you need time to prepare.” She looks up for a brief moment. “I left a tea tray in the kitchen. Take it with you when you go back.”

Puzzled, Jared grabs the basket of towels he _did_ manage to fold successfully so he can put them away in the linen closet en route to his room and private bathroom off the eastern side of the main floor.

“For a guest?”

“For you.”

“Am I sick? Am I dying? That’s about the only time I drink tea.”

Bunny gives him a look that serves as a warning—the look that tells him she’s actively working on figuring out how, exactly, they’re related.

“It’s for you to offer Jensen when he gets here, _smartass._ ” She rolls up the paper, two seconds away from bopping him on the nose with it, like he’s some sort of clueless puppy. “He’ll appreciate something warm after work.”

Jared’s heart tries to do a back flip and his stomach earns a gold medal in the pole vault. Oh, no. Oh, _no._ The emotions are here.

What the fuck happened to gobbling up men like peanuts?

“And _who_ says he’s coming here after work?” 

“He just called,” Bunny answers, as if Jared’s whole future happiness doesn’t depend on how he behaves during this visit. She makes herself comfortable and picks up her iPad for a game of solitaire. “He’s dropping off the last of today’s catch over at the Resort.” “The Resort” is the most-flattering way Bunny ever refers to one of the _other_ converted-mansions now taking guests; _that_ so-called ‘Inn’ has a _spa_ , and Bunny dismisses it wholesale as “New Money.” (This might be the one and only thing she and Georgina agree on.)

If Bunny put together a tea tray to have at the ready, it means Jensen will arrive in no more than ten minutes. Bunny does not serve _cold_ tea trays.

The Gods of Drag help Jared schlep his body from one place to the other without completely losing his shit and falling over himself. Towels. Tea tray. Room. The quickest shower in all human existence, even including the slathering of conditioner over the lower half of his face. After a moment of debate, he tosses on his red-and-black floral-print silk satin robe—a wardrobe staple.

He can, under the right circumstances, pull a version of himself together to host a gentleman caller for an impromptu shag, but he has a feeling that’s not what Jensen’s after.

Last night, Keira aided and abetted their escape, ruthlessly committed to fending off Blair and Aunt Georgina, and running interference on every other nosy person over the age of ten within fifty miles, while proffering his belated refill to toss back, and reuniting him with his surrendered Switch as she ushered them to the door. This morning, after he discovered that Connor purchased a whole fuck-ton of furniture on Animal Crossing, Jared sent Keira a text message thanking her. He chose not to disclose further detail of what happened after Jared hopped into Jensen’s Ford pick-up.

Jared had prepared himself for the usual hijinks expected to follow after scrambling into the vehicle of any potential sexual partner. He pictured the windows getting steamy, classic rock on the radio, and finally getting to use the one condom he hid in the secret pocket of the Kate Spade bag because he’s a _goddamned Boy Scout—_ always prepared.

Reality, the sadistic jerk, took a different turn.

Jensen drove Jared back to the Inn, where he opened the passenger door, then walked Jared to the Inn’s side entrance.

In a quiet, almost shy voice, Jensen politely declined Jared’s invitation to head inside and stuff some stockings. Drink some milk and eat Jared’s cookies. Roast his chestnuts over an open fire. Not a single dirty Christmas joke changed Jensen’s mind. And Jared’s still not entirely sure how he feels about that. Who bows out before the fun gets started? Who declines rocking around the Christmas tree after _literal_ decades of pent-up sexual frustration? George Bailey? No. Jensen Ackles—that’s who. He kissed Jared on the cheek, said they’d talk later, and squeezed his hand before walking back to his truck and disappearing into the freezing night.

Standing in front of the sink, Jared turns the faucet on hot, and starts soaking and wringing a washcloth, in an effort to get his collective shit together. Can he _not?_ Can he just allow things to happen without overthinking, overanalyzing, overreading, oversexing every single person, place, and thing?

Someone he happens to feel attracted to kissed him last night. That’s the bare bones of it. Strip it down to the studs, for fuck’s sake. Whatever happens, happens. He can season his meltdown with alcohol, cigarettes, and silicone at a future date if needed.

It’s possible Jensen wants something casual, like, some variation of no-strings-attached or whatever shit the kids are calling it these days.

Or, Jensen is on his way to let Jared down very gently and say, “Hey, about that semi-incenstuous sexual relationship we were about to pursue? You know, _that_ one. Well, it’s a big leap for me and you’re kind of a hot mess, so let’s revisit it in six to eight weeks. Sound good? Great. Play ball.” 

Maybe not like that. But something like it all the same. Jared holds the hot, steaming terrycloth to his face, willing the pores to open.

Jared might settle for Friends With Benefits. Maybe. Would scraps of something be better than a whole lotta’ nothing?

Should he find out?

“What happened to not overthinking shit?” he scowls, stoppering the bowl of the sink to let it fill with hot water, and starts lathering shaving cream onto his skin.

He pauses and makes eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. Hopefully Alice-in-Wonderland-Jared lives a less complicated life and doesn’t wander around with half his face soaped like some weird, foaming-at-the-mouth Harvey Dent.

A knock to the door of his room prevents Jared from further exploring the idea of somehow escaping inside the mirror. He turns to go answer it, then freezes, dead in his tracks in the bathroom doorway.

He’s not entirely sure he can handle opening the door to find Jensen standing there with whatever it is he has to say. There have been so many times where Jared answered his door expecting the love of his life to be there.

And so far, he’s struck out every single time.

“It’s open,” he calls out and clenches his fists for a second. He ducks back into the bathroom as easily as he used to climb fire escapes to avoid running into asshole landlords, rubs more cream onto the naked half of his face, and picks up his razor.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a Jensen-shaped figure dressed in the kind of jacket that would make Jack London proud. 

“Well, look at you,” Jared murmurs, carefully shaving the dip of his upper lip, and the sides of his mustache stubble, pointedly _not_ looking at Jensen. “Make yourself at home. I have two hours until I leave for my gig tonight.”

Jensen leans against the bedroom door frame, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark, yet unexpectedly-fitted jeans. Jared aches to make a joke about lobsterman uniforms, but suppresses it—just as he nicks his upper lip.

“Mother of _fuck,_ ” Jared growls. He throws down the razor and swishes it through the hot water in the sink. He swipes at the area, removing the shaving cream, and blots it with a tissue. “ _Grown-Ass Man Can’t Shave His Own Fucking Face,_ tonight at ten.” 

It seems like he’s doomed to bleed out from his clumsiness and Jensen’s doomed to stand there and watch—in silence. There are so many movies that end like this.

“That’s a shitty razor,” Jensen says as he rubs his own chin. 

“Yes, _thank you_ for that. Fucking TSA felt compelled to take issue with me having left my good one in my carry-on for the flight here, because you know, I’m lethal with grooming supplies. And by the time I got around to replacing it with something decent—but not encrusted in gold or inlaid with sustainable hardwood, or whatever, like some of those hipster shops on Main sell—Amazon fucked up the shipping address. So here I am, forced to work in field conditions with inferior weapons. You happy?”

“Probably doesn’t help that your hands are shaking.”

“No,” Jared volleys back, pursing his lips. _”No,_ it certainly does _not._ Are you here to dole out ‘helpful’ pointers or just to fuck with me?”

Jensen pauses a beat, eyes towards the ceiling as if lost in thought. “Couldn’t it be both?”

Jared rolls his eyes and huffs. “Look, pal. Your day liberating oversized aquatic cockroaches from the deep blue sea is done, but _my_ day as a professional female impersonator is just starting. This shit comes with hazards on the job.” He starts shaving again. “I’d like to see you and your fellow Gorton’s Fishermen handle a bikini wax.”

“You’re still bleeding. Don’t you have a styptic pencil?”

“Jesus Christ, Jensen. Who knew you’d learn how to speak in sentences just to irritate me?”

“I irritate everyone,” Jensen deadpans. “Not just you.”

“Oh good, that’s great. You’re really moving on up.”

“Is the tea tray for me?”

“Fuck no. It’s for people who aren’t pissing me off.”

“It’s hot cocoa.”

“You think you can just storm into my room and drink my tea? The precious tea our precious Great-Aunt Bunny made specifically for me and not for you?”

“It’s not tea. It’s cocoa.”

“What astute observations you’ve made so far tonight,” Jared grumbles. “And to think, you went to Harvard.”

Jensen pours himself a cup of cocoa and takes a careful sip. _“Mmm._ Do you want some? Bunny gave us two cups. Also, it’s pronounced _HAAAH-vid.”_

“No, no liquids before a show. And this razor may be shit, but I can absolutely gouge your eyes out with it.”

“That’d be aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Bunny will bail me out.” 

Jared’s attempts at steadying his hands all die a painful death. He leans against the sink, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. The banter is nice, comforting, even. But it’s got an edge to it that only amplifies his anxiety. What little he remembers of Jensen’s actual speaking voice, now deeper and richer, is mired in memories of the farm—a sore spot in his brain that has its own zip code.

He hears Jensen set his cup back on the not-tea tray resting on Jared’s unmade bed, some rustling, then the sound of heavy boots crossing the bedroom to the bathroom doorway.

Maybe if he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes, Jensen will take pity and get it over with quick.

“All right,” Jensen says, his voice noticeably softer in volume and tone. “C’mere.” This is the part where Jensen gives him another frustratingly platonic kiss on the temple and says, “It’s not you, it’s me,” because whoever’s writing Jared’s life has some serious emotional issues. 

Jared cautiously opens one—and only one—eye.

With his little eye, he spies Jensen holding up the shitty-ass razor and a hand towel.

Surprised, Jared’s second eye joins the party so he can offer Jensen an appropriate, “You’re fucking serious” face.

Jensen nods.

Upon closer inspection, Jensen has shucked off his parka before stepping into the bathroom. He’s wearing a canvas work shirt over what looks like the world’s softest olive-green henley. 

Scents of Dial soap, sandalwood, and saltwater mix with cherry-almond shampoo, Dove soap, and Barbasol shaving cream.

Jared closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, grimaces, then leans against the sink countertop. He leans forward and tilts his head, chin out. He closes his eyes once again, because he will not get through this without crying if he doesn’t.

Jensen taps Jared’s left hip, and Jared scoots a couple of inches to his right, giving Jensen’s right hand a clear path to the sink full of hot water. Jensen moves between Jared’s knees, closing the space between them. Jared tries to breathe shallowly, so as not to move his face—now Jensen’s canvas.

“No,” Jensen says. “Just breathe normally.”

“I _am_ breathing normally.”

“If you keep trying to control it, you’ll just keep shaking.”

“So roll with it, Sir Elton John.”

“Listen.” Jensen presses their foreheads together for a brief moment. Jared keeps his eyes shut, petulant. “If you keep trying to anticipate what I want, you’ll make my hand move in random directions.” Another bump, this one longer. “You don’t know what I want. Just breathe. I know what I’m doing.”

How artful and melodic the words sound. No—how _tender_ the words sound.

Jensen cradles the back of Jared’s head, pragmatic in his approach to counteract any pressure applied from the front.

Jared speaks, though his own voice carries a clear wave of anxiety. “If I’d known this was what it’d take to get you this close to me, holy shit. I’d have asked you to teach me back in the day.”

“You didn’t have facial hair ‘back in the day.’”

_”Some_ of us had to wait for our beards, Papa Hemingway.”

“Calling me Hemingway?” Jensen continues, deadpan again. “How original.”

“Listen, you—”

Cutting in, Jensen’s tone changes on a dime, from ‘deadpan’ to ‘command.’ “I know this will cause you physical pain, but kindly shut _the fuck_ up so I can do this right.” Jared’s heart stutters in his chest.

The press of the razor against Jared’s skin does the trick. He shuts up. He sits still. He hopes his future therapist is ready to earn their money. How fucked up is he inside that he’s turned on by this? And not just turned on, like, ready-to-rock—turned on in such a way, that he’ll never be able to look at another razor again without thinking of this goddamned moment.

Nine out of ten dentists recommend being shaved by your very attractive, very capable cousin.

Inside his head, Jared pictures Jensen at work, out at sea. He cobbles together an image of the waves hitting the side of the boat.

Jensen starts moving the razor down Jared’s upper lip in short strokes, using no pressure whatsoever. He finishes, swishes the razor through the warm water in the sink, and uses a fingertip to gently massage the remaining shaving cream into Jared’s skin. He repeats the process over and over again, and the waves in Jared’s head follow the same rhythm. 

The boat continues on, Jensen at the wheel. Crests of water smooth along the port and starboard rails. A sense of peace ties everything together.

Cheeks, lower lip, jaw.

Jensen uses his free hand to turn Jared’s face with the greatest care.

Another application of the hot, wrung-out washcloth, more white foam. Tiny strokes coast over each area a second time. Jensen doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t rush or skimp or cut corners or treat Jared as any less than precious. The newness of these emotions rush through Jared. His heart struggles to keep up with his mind.

Jensen places the razor on the sink. With both hands on Jared’s face, he moves the remaining white suds around delicately until they disappear. He moves his right hand from Jared’s cheek, but only to pull the stopper in the sink and run the hot water again. His left hand continues to cradle the back of Jared’s head, fingers warm against Jared’s damp hair.

Jared listens to the sound of the hand towel soaking up hot, clean water. He crafts an image in his mind of Jensen’s hands being splashed with seawater and foam.

Hot and wet, the hand towel slides over his left cheek.

The last few waves carry Jensen back to shore.

Jensen’s hands are in the exact same position on Jared’s face as they were the night before. They slow, then still. 

Does Jared risk opening his eyes? Does he risk leaving this newly discovered, tranquil place in his mind? Hesitation pulls at him, tells him ‘no.’ ‘Stay here,’ where the world brings Jensen back to land every time.

Jensen kisses Jared.

He kisses Jared in such a way that it could never be mistaken as platonic. From the first press of his lips against Jared’s, Jensen is all steam, salt, and smoke. He replays Jared’s message from their first kiss when he bites Jared’s bottom lip.

_He likes pain, too._

Jensen pulls back. The separation leaves a scorch mark on Jared’s tongue.

“Good job,” Jensen rumbles, nosing Jared’s cheek. _”Very_ good job.”

Jared could _cry._

And he would, too, if he wasn’t so fucking _hard._

Opening his eyes, Jared tries to hide his face behind the hand towel. His eyes meet Jensen’s in an instant. He swears he can see his own emotions reflected back to him—attraction and affection, without a hint of guilt or regret. Freckles stretch over the bridge of Jensen’s nose, along with an actual, god-honest _blush._

Jared clears his throat. 

“I might have a heart attack,” Jared rambles, words thick in his mouth. “Or a nosebleed.”

Jensen smiles, which crinkles the corners of his eyes, which in turn cause Jared to continue towards a very slow, yet very enjoyable demise. 

“Let’s hope for the nosebleed,” Jensen says, offering up a boyish smile. “Though, not sure there’s much blood left in _that_ region.”

Jared blinks. “Huh?”

Jensen dips his chin and his eyebrows go up, eyes never leaving Jared’s.

_Busted._

“The classy thing to do would be _not_ to call attention to it,” Jared huffs, and attempts to ignore the very obvious tent in his robe. He rolls his head back, from side-to-side, cracking his neck. 

“Do you deny it?”

Jared shrugs and scoffs, “I can neither confirm nor deny it, Counselor.”

Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, Jensen steps in again, grabs a fistful of Jared’s hair close to the nape of his neck and _yanks._ This locks Jared in place, at Jensen’s mercy, and leaves Jared’s cock pulsing, aching for more.

His lips a mere inch from Jared’s, Jensen repeats, “Do you deny it _now?”_

Jared releases a shuddering breath, chest falling. He meets Jensen’s uncompromising stare with confidence of his own. “I will neither confirm nor deny it, _Sir.”_

That last word? That word right there?

It melts Jensen’s butter.

He does a marvelous job of allowing only a mere split-second glimpse of going all gooey on the inside before schooling his features back to neutral-but-stern again, but Jared catches it and commits it to memory.

_”Uh-HUH,"_ Jared quips and presses a quick kiss to Jensen’s lips. He slides out of Jensen’s tantalizing grasp. 

Jensen nods once, then shakes his head. “Should I have done your chest?”

“Should you have come on my chest? Yeah, sure. Why not?” Jared snickers. “No, it’s fine. No cleavage tonight. Not for these peasants. And if I don’t get good tips tonight, they won’t see any cleavage until June.”

“We’re usually thawed out by the last week of May,” Jensen says, laughing. He rinses the sink and washes his hands. “Global warming and all.”

“When a queen says June, she _means_ June, Jack.”

“My apologies, Princess.”

“I’ll forgive you—this time.” Jared checks the time on his phone. “Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck.”

Dryly, leaning against the counter, Jensen says, “You’re coming up on York County’s daily per-hominem quota for F-bombs. Might wanna save a few for later. Just in case.”

“What have I got here? Oh, look. Here’s another one: _fuck you.”_

“Fine, waste ‘em.”

“Pfft. Per hominem. I’ll give you _’per hominem.’”_

“You don’t have time,” Jensen says, cool as a goddamned cucumber. He pushes off the counter, turns, and leaves the bathroom. “I’ll give you a moment.”

“How nice of you to ‘give me a moment,’” Jared calls out, “but conveniently _leave the door open,_ you perv.”

“It’s called ‘impulse control,’” Jensen volleys back from the other room. “I’ll just sit here and mind my own business for the next five minutes.”

Jared snorts. Does Jensen honestly think it’ll take five minutes? He’ll be lucky if he lasts thirty seconds. He glares at his cock, valiantly trying to escape the satin confines of his robe, below the tie belt. Nothing but trouble, it is. Nothing but aching. Rigid. Trouble.

Should he handle _—ha!—_ the problem or smother it?

“I can’t believe this,” he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with his left hand, while his right hand reaches for his disco stick. He calls into the next room, “if I try to tuck like this, I will _die_ and I _will_ come back to _haunt_ y’all.”

“I hope you haunt me first,” Jensen laughs.

“Oh, shut _up,_ you smug bastard. Shut up and let me…” Jared finds a travel-sized bottle of lube, silently thanking the gods that it was where he thought it was. He wraps his hand around his cock and barely chokes down the moan in his throat.

Still leaning against the sink, Jared makes every attempt to avoid recreating the infamous restaurant orgasm scene in ‘When Harry Met Sally.’ He can do it. He believes in himself. Think about poor Billy Crystal. Don’t think about Jensen kneeling down, lips parted, tongue peeking out. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, and clamps his left hand over his mouth. “Oh, _shit.”_

Jared pumps his cock in long, quick strokes. He flicks the head with his thumb. Any sense of rhythm disappears. He’s all erratic, fumbling, and messy with the lube that looks like spit that should be from Jensen’s warm, wet mouth.

Desperate, Jared grabs a hand towel—one they didn’t use for shaving—and crams it into his mouth to keep from screaming down the entire Inn. He comes like a goddamn teenager—fast and in staggering spurts. Pleasure and relief work their way from his hips to the flushed, pink tip of his cock. He bites down on the hand towel, which muffles what would otherwise be a moan and a whine.

The part of Jared’s brain responsible for filthy daydreams and fantasies poses a question: what if Jensen’s in the other room doing the same exact thing?

“Shit,” Jared hisses. His cock jumps at this new idea. He rolls his eyes and takes his hand off, then wipes it with the towel he had stuffed in his mouth the way he’d like Jensen stuffed in his…

_Holy hell,_ has he got problems.

Ninety-nine problems and a… no. _No._ He’s going to be late. He should not continue to sit on the sink countertop, idly stroking his now thankfully-softening cock, staring off into space. Discipline. He can jack off with wild abandon when he returns. Jack off to Jack. Jack off _with_ Jack. Oh, _fuck._

Snapping into action, Jared cleans himself up, brushes and dries his hair, and achieves a near-perfect test-tuck using a gaffe instead of tape. Satisfied with the look, he untucks for the time being, tosses his robe back on and glides out of the bathroom.

He finds Jensen sitting by the cold fireplace, in Jared’s favorite armchair, sipping from Bunny’s teacup, legs comfortably spread like he’s made himself at home and all of what just happened is no big deal. No big deal at all.

Jensen shoots him the smuggiest _—it’s a word—_ smirk, his eyes raking a long, slow path over Jared’s entire body, stem to stern.

“Took you long enough.”

“Oh,” Jared snorts. “It’s _long_ enough.”

“Whatever,” Jensen scoffs, with an eye roll of his own. “Would Her Highness like a ride to Her gig?”

“Her Highness loves riding.” Jared bends to put on a pair of satin panties, clearly cut for the contours of the cis-male form. “Facing forward, facing backwards…”

“Har, _har.”_

“Excuse me, but does it look like I turn down free rides? Santa himself could offer and I’d _ho-ho-ho_ on that sleigh. Do you ever think about how much of an asshole Santa is in most movies? And how incredibly gay-coded _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ is?”

Jensen shakes his head, but smiles the entire time. “Can’t say I do.”

“Allow me to—ow, fuck.” Jared grunts as he shimmies into comfy-AF leggings. He’ll tuck and add padding at the bar, like a decent person. “Not that. Well. Not right now. Remember that old-school stop-motion movie? ‘Island of Misfit Toys,’ am I right? I always feel like that one elf, what was his name? Oh! ‘Herbie! Why weren’t you at Elf practice?!’ And that haircut, that voice. I love when he says, ‘You can’t fire me, I quit. Seems, I don’t fit in.’ Furthermore, _I_ want to run away from my problems and form a polyamorous relationship with a twinky elf and a daddy-bear prospector.”

“You’ve clearly given this a lot of thought.”

He shrugs and tosses on a black t-shirt. “About as much as Bunny does about Christmas trees.”

“...you think maybe I could watch you tonight?”

Jared packs his long-sleeve, skin-tight, black bodysuit into a duffel bag, along with a few other supplies. He also tries his best not to faint. “I need you to _not_ phrase it like that or I’m gonna have to use _staples_ when I tuck later. _What?”_

“I’ll use smaller words.”

“Fuckface.”

“Oh, _that’s_ a big word.”

“I’m two seconds from kicking your ass to the curb, Jensen.”

“Can I go to your show?” Jensen clarifies, eyes stuck on Jared’s first-favorite pair of knee-high Doc Martens, sitting quietly on display next to the side table. This pair makes a big statement, customized to his exacting specifications: knee-high, 20-eye 1B60s with a medial zip, in black, fine-grain Nappa leather, with the iconic grooved-side soles, yellow welt stitching, and the scripted-yellow heel loop all perfectly positioned over four-inch stacked heels.

“Yeah,” Jared sighs, following Jensen’s gaze, knowing what he’ll be wearing on the trip there. “I guess that’s fine.” On any other night before a gig, he’d toss on civilian boots and be done with it.

Jensen nods. Jared does not miss the slight shift of Jensen’s hips in the armchair.

“Since you’ve apparently discovered the power of words lately,” Jared says, doing his best to sound casual. “Why don’t you regale me with the Cliffs Notes version of what the hell we’re doing, because I thought you were a gold-star cis-het.”

“A gold-star cis-het?”

“One of the straight-and-narrows. A complete mystery to me, _but_ I hear some people choose that ‘alternative lifestyle.’”

“Hmm.”

“C’mon.” Jared sits at his makeshift vanity dresser, otherwise known as the half-round table Bunny loaned him from the foyer and his travel ring-light mirror. He sighs at the state of his makeup palettes, brushes, pots, tubes, and other devices of torture. “Start talking. It’ll help me prepare. This may be a drag show, but it still has to be a _good_ drag show. If possible, a _great_ drag show.”

Jensen tilts his head towards Jared, one finger tapping his beard. He’d look incredible in the morning, right after the sun rises and he comes all over Jared’s face.

Their eyes lock for a moment.

And Jared _swears—_ he would bet his best pair of Blahniks on it—that they think the same thing at the same time.

“It’s moisturizing,” Jared quips, with a wink.

The blush on Jensen’s face afterwards? Totally worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**Jared spends the next hour packing his things for the gig and applying the first, strategic layers of makeup to his face, throat, and chest.**

Drag Queen Rule: never underestimate the power of a quality primer.

Despite his years—decades, but that’s a naughty word in this context—of experience, Jared still feels the pressure to appear as flawless as possible when in drag. _The Look_ separates the pros from the amateurs, the dedicated from the half-assed. Not just anyone can execute _The Face_ , either. There must be a level of authenticity behind the sparkle and the wig.

Drag queens are human, after all.

All the while, Jensen stretches out in the armchair, now-dry boots propped up on the little antique carved-wood footstool, legs crossed at the ankle.

And he _talks._

Jensen is as methodical about his word choices and as careful with his phrasing as Jared is thorough with his outfits and lighting setup. Decades pour out of Jensen and coalesce into a rolling ocean of whitecapped details. Things Jared couldn’t have possibly known last night, last week, last year, or that last summer they were on the farm at the same time are revealed now. 

Jensen hated the ending of that chapter in their lives.

Yes, he’s had more-than-friendly, definitely-not-familial feelings towards Jared for a while. Just the past twenty years and some change, totally not that long at all when compared to, oh, the lifespan of a dwarf star or something.

Yes, he likes Jared, just the way he is. Not thinner, not shorter, not quieter, not _normal._

Just. The way. He is.

And spending time with Jared yesterday—more pointedly _last night_ —cemented his feelings.

_But._

Oh god, there’s always a ‘but,’ and not the good kind of ‘butt.’

_If_ he had indulged in Jared’s advances and his own interest back then, any action on his part would have been not just inappropriate, but illegal. He knew that then and he knows it now. It was tough witnessing a similar scenario play out in front of him last night, as Jared rejected Ensley. Jensen genuinely felt for the kid.

Sometimes, people can’t have what they want, when they want it, or at all.

The more he curled up in his bed at night and jerked off to the idea of teenaged-Jared sleeping in the next room over, the heavier _illegal-bad-no_ weighed down on him.

Jared’s eyes go wide at the knowledge of these particularly juicy details. Unlike his cousin, he never got too caught up in the ‘shame’ portion of his attraction to Jensen and/or other men. What got Jared was the constant pressure toxic masculinity placed on being so _fucking_ macho.

“You jerked off about me?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that, Princess.”

“Uh, _fuck_ no. Confirm it.”

“Nope.”

“Do it or I’m not wearing these.” Jared points a long, slender finger at the first-favorite knee-high Doc Martens resting nearby. “And wearing _those._ ” He points to a pair of tragically-hideous muck boots in the corner of his room—a sad necessity in the Pine Tree state.

Jensen raises an eyebrow. And he starts talking.

“What gives you any idea that there was an overwhelming tendency for the featured performers in my carefully-curated VHS collection of... _adult theatrical productions._.. to be tall and lanky, with silky brown hair that was always in their face, and who clearly spent plenty of time shirtless in the sun? Once, I found one where the guy actually had goddamned dimples, and I will _absolutely_ neither confirm _nor_ deny, Your Highness, that that particular tape got played and rewound so often the goddamned thing wore through and broke.”

Jared is, both simultaneously and by turns, flattered, surprised, relieved, and irritated that it’s taken more than twenty years of stilted silence, awkward avoidance, and casual hostility to learn this very, very tantalizing bit of information.

So what does he do to express all of that?

“You know,” he says, conversationally, keeping his tone light, “I’ve considered doing porn.”

“I can’t believe I just said that to you.”

“Why? I’m hot.”

“Because saying _anything_ like that to you is still new for me.”

“Well, your kissing game is strong.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He had innumerable dreams about Jared and what it would be like to kiss him, or to touch him without fear, hurry, or guilt. 

The ‘what-ifs’ and the ‘maybes’ haunted him for years.

He fought himself on it more times than he could count. He wasn’t made of stone. Not when there were dimples, smirks, smiles, and long, _long_ legs on the farm for three solid months out of the year.

Jared was sixteen and curious. Clever. Determined.

Jensen was twenty and cautious. Afraid. Confused.

The whole thing would have put them both in hot water with older, conservative relatives their parents couldn’t shield them from.

He went to undergrad in Texas for convenience. It was easier to swing back to the farm in the summertime, and in between projects and semesters. He could have his fill of admiring Jared from afar—to look, but never touch. Funny how their four-year age difference seemed so vast back then. It placed Jared just out of his reach, when now, in their forties, four years is a blink.

Jensen watches Jared prepare and dress with simmering intensity.

Jared nestles into the sound of Jensen’s voice and collects every new fact, every tidbit, every last detail, like a dragon hoarding gold.

At college, Jensen went through Rush mainly because his mother never failed to remind him how many uncles had gone Greek, and that while he was ‘a legacy,’ and she just wanted him to be _happy..._ He didn’t _have_ to join if he didn’t want to, no, of course not—but it _would_ be a nice resumé item, it _would_ help him break out of his shell, and a lifetime of alumni connections was _never_ a bad thing to have.

There were lots of people partying, lots of people drinking to excess and behaving badly, lots of people doing things that make them all grateful, now, in their ‘grown-up’ years, that there was no such thing as Facebook or Snapchat back then. “Animal House” is not an altogether solid scientific sample representation of University Life For The Fraternity Man, but it is certainly a microcosm of archetypes.

_“Microcosm?”_ Jared shoots Jensen a look that says, with disdain, “Ooooh, _fancy,_ aren’t we?”

“ _HAAAH-vid_ ,” Jensen drawls, self-deprecation evident.

He went Pre-Law, because, why else? The Family. At that school, it would net him a Bachelor’s in Political Science, on paper, with a minor in Econ. Anywhere else would just have called it “Business,” but this college thought “Economics” was a fancier, more-pretentious academic department name.

Years later, the same expectations and influence The Family used to steer him towards litigation also drove him away from it.

That aside, he did actually enjoy the classes in the Pre-Law track. It wasn’t necessarily that _hard_ , for people who actually made an effort to show up, awake and sober. Pre-Law made it especially easy to make excuses and subsequently avoid most of the ‘worst’ aspects of what people expect from fraternities by tucking himself into the “The Studious One” niche and letting that do most of the explaining for him.

Sophomore year, Jensen moved into the fraternity house on campus, as was both typical and expected. He learned instantly that post-pubescent men living in a large-group scenario, unbound by rules and regulations and constant supervision like the military has, are disgusting slobs. 

Jared cuts in. “Honey, you have _clearly_ never been inside a bathhouse.”

“That’s what _you_ assume,” Jensen counters.

“Holy cannoli, Batman! Tell me about _that._ ” 

“Can I get through the important stuff first?”

“Fine, fine. G’wan.”

There were plenty of times throughout college when Jensen asked himself why he’d chosen The College Experience if he wasn’t going to _actually participate_ in it, but _whatever._ He was there and time moved forward. That’s all that mattered. He kept his head down, studied, got good grades, pointedly didn’t talk about that with the fraternity brothers, and wanted to believe he was going to get into law school on his own merit, regardless of The Family and alumni connections. He was adopted, but that didn’t mean he _wanted_ to “coast” on the privileges lined up for him by the elders who came ahead of him to whom he wasn’t, technically, related.

That summer, he came back to the farm for what he knew—even if Jared didn’t realize it at the time—was going to be his last summer of “freedom.” He’d considered not coming back that summer at all, but his father, Jared’s Uncle Ellison, was having a hip replaced in the spring after taking a fall from one of the horses, so Jensen recalled his internship applications for that summer to come home again. 

By then, Jared had picked up at least another inch in height since their cousin Claire’s wedding, and was starting to fill out. The extra height was in _addition_ to the three extra inches since the summer before. He was, to Jensen, everything he wished he could be—confident, outgoing, and eager to experience everything life had to offer. Jensen tried, multiple times, and only ever in private, to work up the nerve to say _something_ to Jared… now that Jared was nearly tall enough to look him in the eye.

All he had to offer, however, were white-bread anecdotes of Poli-Sci lectures and tales of the hijinks that often happened in the fraternity house right around midterms, and escalated after finals but before people left on break.

It was easier to admire and pine from a distance, especially at family functions where Jared brought a date.

Present-day Jared swats Jensen on the head.

“I wanted you to notice me so bad,” Jared admits, hands on his hips, facing Jensen. “I practically _threw_ myself at you, Jack, and you just… I got nothing. No response. You could have said _something._ Even rejected me or put me in my place. At least it would have been more than… silence.”

The press of Jensen’s hands on him in the pantry last night and in the bathroom just now provided _some_ comfort, but they didn’t exactly heal old wounds. 

Jared clears his throat. “I was so mad at you. For the longest time. Maybe I still am.”

Jensen stands up from the armchair, his movement fluid. “I don’t blame you,” he murmurs, his voice dark like the molasses in an ale flip. “Or hold it against you. I’m…” He takes a deep breath. “Sorry about a lot of things, Jay.”

Oh, shit.

Jensen used The Nickname.

The only people who call Jared ‘Jay’ are his mother, two exes who can rot, Miss Lily after too many rye highballs, and a version of Jensen from what feels like three lifetimes ago.

Moments in his life he knew he deserved an apology from numerous people but never got it flit through Jared’s mind. This one matters.

“Thanks,” Jared says, quietly. 

Jensen nods. A different beat of silence follows, this one unobtrusive and light. 

They exchange a pair of demure smiles—Jensen looking like the lead in a movie about mountaineers braving the elements and Jared, looking like an internationally-ignored rock singer from East Berlin, searching for stardom and love. Jared takes his sweet-ass time zipping up his boots. Jensen watches, barely-wincing.

Jensen lifts his right hand and rubs the back of his neck, an unconscious gesture that hasn’t changed in all the time Jared’s known who he was, even before coming to the farm that first summer. “You know… even if I tried to talk, I couldn’t get a word in around you anyway.”

“Ah,” Jared laughs. “So it’s my fault?”

“I’m simply saying that I might assign a percentage of blame to each party involved, based on the details.”

“Sounds more like _someone’s_ jealous of my fabulous voice.” Jared rises and strikes a pose, accentuating the long line of his legs in leather. Standing, in his first-favorite pair of knee-high Docs, Jared is nearly seven feet tall. Jensen blinks twice, and shakes his head, drawing in a breath.

“Is your fabulous voice ready to go?”

“Oh, _shit._ Yes. Move, move, _move._ You got my bag?”

“Right here.”

“Can you check if my phone’s in there? Or maybe I tossed it in here.”

“It’s here.”

“Do I need a jacket?”

“Nah, it’s just December. _In Maine._ ”

“Maybe I’ll sing you Christmas carols on the way there.”

“Maybe you’ll hitchhike there.”

“Hey, I have my own car, bub. Well, it’s not _my_ car, _technically_ it’s Bunny’s old Buick—that thing drives like a motherfuckin’ tank. But don’t act like you’re some benevolent god for giving me a ride— _too easy_ —don’t you dare.”

“I’m not daring anything. Watch your step here.”

“Oof. I gotta get Bunny to let me fix this step. A queen could lose her shit and then we’re all out of business. Did you make out with any of your frat buddies?”

“Good god, _no._ ”

“Don’t act like you didn’t consider it.”

“I didn’t.” Jensen lifts the handle of the door to the passenger side.

“Oh, he opens the door to his makeout mobile for _me._ ”

“It has a name.”

“You named your truck? Seriously?”

“Greased Lightning.”

“Gross, Jensen. John Travolta did not die of a fever that one, gray Saturday night for this.”

“That… makes no sense.”

“I’m wearing spandex and shellac in December. Nothing makes sense.”

“Fair enough. Where to?”

“The place. You know. The one off of East Main.”

“They’re practically _all_ off Main, that’s why it’s called 'Main.'”

“Ugh, it’s the one _on_ Main, on the East Side, _where East intersects._ ”

“It is literally called 'East Street.'”

“Whatever, Jeeves, just drive! And keep talking. Did you date?”

“Sort of.”

“Look, pal. My mother is the Queen of the Grapevine. She’s practically a glass of sauvignon blanc. So it’s nice to get clarification straight— _ahem_ —from the source. Everyone would say something vague like, _‘Jensen’s seeing someone.’_ I assumed women everywhere threw themselves at you and you took them up on it.”

“Ah, Auntie Karen.”

“ _Right?_ Try being her son.”

“Hard pass.”

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Your hand’s on my thigh.”

“Is that a problem?”

“...I’ll let you know in a minute, Mr. Hard Pass.”

Jensen eases the truck down the Inn’s driveway, which Jared re-shoveled this morning to burn off his emotional hangover and because it wasn’t worth gassing up the snowblower, which he now knows how to use thanks, of course, to Aunt Bunny’s careful instruction. There’s already new snow on the asphalt, a persistent problem that will one day lead to Jared kicking Jack Frost’s ass. 

They pass the Arundel Village Antique Shop, a decent place to pass the time looking for new pieces of jewelry to add to routines, though some of the dealers’ booths are a bit overpriced. Snow is falling fast enough to dance in swirling spirals on the main road.

Maneuvering past other vehicles on the road that clearly aren’t in any hurry to be anywhere despite the weather, Jensen taps his fingers as he holds onto the steering wheel. He clears his throat. “I didn’t really date anyone in college. Or law school. I just… dabbled.” 

Jared snorts and shakes his head. “So say what you mean. You fucked around.”

Of course, from Jensen’s perspective, it wasn’t _that_ simple.

Women offered, and when they did, Jensen occasionally took them up on it. Turning down _all_ of them would be weird, and turning down too many of them would be rude, so he would hook up with a partner a time or two—at most—never anything more than casual—once every couple of months.

He never brought anyone ‘home’ because it never felt right. He was open enough about the occasional hookups that the fraternity brothers didn’t have any reason to question it, but he also gave no impression whatsoever that he was interested in anything ‘serious’ with anyone he’d met.

Gratifyingly, there were more law school acceptance letters than rejections on his ‘Wall of Shame,’ and following in at least a couple of his (adopted) forebears’ footsteps, he made what everyone considered the ‘obvious’ choice when the envelope came postmarked “Cambridge, Mass.” There was literally _no_ reason _not_ to leave Texas and head “Back East,” to such a prestigious institution. His mother never once failed to remind him about this fact, no matter happy and proud as she claimed to be with news from Texas and Midwest acceptances. So Harvard— _HAAAH-vid_ —it was. 

It was his chance to shake off his problematic infatuation with his younger cousin and all the guilt, shame, and regret wrapped up with it. He convinced himself that Jared didn’t have actual feelings for him. Jensen’s feelings were another case of raging hormones. It was an exhausting and painful set of mental gymnastics.

Leaving Dallas for Boston became part of his plan to eradicate any and all inappropriate emotions towards Jared. Distance would help. Also, if he was going to give any consideration to potential other partners who weren’t women, so much the better to do it in a more-liberal region of the country, with more people around to ‘disappear’ amongst, and without having to deal with his mother’s well-intended-but-relentless ‘concerns’ about his romantic happiness.

Jensen’s rich baritone fills up the truck, tiny hints of Texas creeping back into his pronunciation and lexicon, clearly just from being around Jared. It keeps Jared warm in a way he hadn’t noticed before. Snow-covered trees line each side of the road. Branches bend under the weight of new fairy dust from the sky. As one of the Texas-family-branches, Jared and his mother often traveled to Maine on vacation. Jared is no stranger to Maine and its winding, rural roads occasionally accented by an errant Target or access to scenic areas being blocked off by the security for multi-million-dollar former-presidential summer retreats of America’s most prominent political families.

He misses San Antonio and Austin in pieces, here and there.

But he can’t exactly call his time so far in Maine, with Bunny and the rest of the brigade, a ‘terrible experience.’

Mailboxes and stop signs start to fade from view as the snow picks up. Greased Lightning’s lights cast a warm glow on the marshmallow pieces tumbling from the sky. In the ways only natives and longtime locals know how, Jensen nudges the brakes and eases on the gas at exactly the right moments to account for the road conditions. If anyone in the car can lay claim to being a ‘hearty New Englander,’ it’s Jensen.

Jared texts the club owner with their arrival time—another fifteen minutes, give or take. “Tell me about your time in _BAAH-stin._ I want all the juicy details. I bet you also tried to win back your ex-boyfriend by getting a degree at Harvard, _and_ , in the process, overcame stereotypes against blondes.”

“Nope.”

“C’mon.”

“I’m also not blond.”

“Jensen.”

“I’m also, contrary to popular belief, not Luke Wilson.”

“Jensen. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Quit lying or I’ll make you pull over so I can knock you in the head with one of those sandbags in the back.”

“The sandbags are not for beating people with. They’re for stability.”

“You think you know everything because you’re a man and I know nothing because I’m a woman.”

“...now you lost me.”

Jared gasps and clutches at his non-existent pearls. “Oh, you bastard.”

At a stop light, Jensen looks over at Jared, eyebrows raised. “Did I miss something?”

“I knew it,” Jared heaves a belabored sigh. “You missed the first quote. So you got the Elle Woods reference, but you’ve never seen ‘The Birdcage?’”

“Is that a prerequisite?”

“Yes, you _must_ suck dick and you _must_ have watched Nathan Lane and Robin Williams play a gay couple on the big screen. Not necessarily at the same time. But you don’t get your gay card in the mail without either of those.”

“Oh, there’s a _gay_ _card._ ”

“Definitely, and a gay agenda. Top of the list is ‘Brunch’ followed by ‘Bring Back 2001 Britney.’ That last one, I’m on a committee. We meet on Wednesdays.”

“And on Wednesdays we wear pink.”

Jared swats at Jensen and laughs. “You did not just pick up on my ‘Mean Girls’ reference and quote it back to me.”

“Scary, right?”

“ _Very._ So if you ‘dabbled,’ what kind of people _did_ you hook up with? When did you realize you started to feel differently about the whole Stepford set-up? And! Bonus points: lobsters? _Really?_ ”

Jensen’s grip on the steering wheel relaxes. He smiles, as if amused by a memory.

He wasn’t a _total_ monk. A guy has _needs._ He met a few women while he was studying in Boston. Some gradually became friends instead of romantic partners. He gravitated towards older women, ones with careers and interests of their own that kept them busy and their boundaries clear. He approached their hookups as a mutually-beneficial physical exercise in sexual release. 

There were, however, a few of these connections that could have turned into something more substantive if he had let it. Letting it was always the problem.

When people pushed about his perpetual bachelorhood, he leaned into the art of politely demurring from their attempts—too busy, too much studying, preparing for the bar, and, occasionally, “sorry, there’s someone back home.”

Not that he technically had anyone back home. Pining wasn’t “having.” But it wasn’t a lie, and it was vague enough that people didn’t press. (God bless New Englanders for knowing when to mind their business.) It was just a thing he’d say so that people would back off and leave him alone. But the thought stayed in the back of his mind.

During Jensen’s first summer in Boston, he worked at a small, but respected, ‘white-shoe’ law firm in the city. Someone who knew someone who went to school with Uncle James, who had arranged everything the previous spring via phone calls and family parties. Jensen fetched a lot of coffee and answered a lot of phones and took a lot of notes and learned that being an Office Manager for lawyers is a job he would _never_ wish on his worst enemy, no matter _how_ much the senior partners say their role/s in the firm/s are crucial to the firm/s operation. 

By the time the summer was over, he thoroughly understood that a lot of the day-to-day of Being A Lawyer is really fucking boring. A huge amount of the work that _does_ get done is done by the paralegals, summer associates, and junior members of the firm. The senior members and partners? They get to do the trials—trials were definitely much more interesting—and they took all of the more interesting cases. He knew where his path was, and where he’d be in the pecking order, regardless of which firm he eventually landed at after graduation and after passing the Bar. Of course, he worked there again, the second summer.

Near the end of his time in Boston, an oil-and-gas-industry litigation firm headquartered in Dallas swept in with an employment offer that was both more-promising than the one from the Boston firm he’d clerked at the previous two summers, and his mother had been making no end of noises about never seeing him any more. He chose litigation because he enjoyed the fight. Making other litigators eat their own words fueled him.

Over the few years in Massachusetts, he had dabbled with other men. Dallas felt like a clean break. He knew how to be discreet and how to choose reliable partners. Once again, he leaned towards older men who were in similar positions—comfortable enough to spend time with other men in the privacy of their own homes, vacation homes, private ski retreats, yachts, and villas. 

He understood ‘his sexuality’ better.

But the world he’d built around himself had, in turn, become intolerable. That particular sentiment developed at a gradual pace—it became something he couldn’t resolve after a vacation to Rome or buying another vintage Rolex. 

The fight no longer interested him. The people around him no longer interested him. Some of the people, and a lot of the work, were awful. Upon his return from a business trip to Manhattan to take a deposition from yet another super-conservative entitled oil executive, he resigned his position at the firm. That day also happened to be his ten-year anniversary at the Dallas practice—a week ahead, as it turned out, of him being made a partner.

He sold his high-rise downtown Dallas condo and moved back to the farm. He knows everyone in their extended family refers to it, with some variation, as his ‘mental break.’ They can have their opinions. He renewed his appreciation for New Englanders’ comprehension of when to mind their business,

He carries his fair share of regret. The more time passes, the more the old phrase rings true: hindsight really is 20/20. 

Doing something completely different with his life, completely unrelated to anything he’d ever done before, is, without question, one of the decisions he does not regret.

Working as a lobsterman in coastal Southern Maine is not for the faint of heart, body, or mind. But he’s done it for a decade. There’s salt water in his veins now. He can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be or anything else he’d rather be doing.

Eight years ago, he bought three acres in one of the quieter parts of Kennebunkport from Great-Uncle Hyde and had a house built. And he’s been here ever since. From June through January, he wakes up at 3:00 every morning, drinks two cups of black coffee, eats a reasonable breakfast, and arrives to the harbor for his twelve-to-thirteen-hour day by 4:00. His usual bedtime? 8:00 in the evening.

Jared’s gig tonight starts at eight.

Without a single worry, Jensen navigates the slope of Main Street, now lightly covered in snow, without a single fishtail from the back of the truck bed. The sandbags clearly work. Sweetie Pie’s Ice Cream looks like it hadn’t been dug out from the most recent snowfall, which means the snow they’ve had over the last two days also isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and even with their reduced winter hours, they’ve likely elected to hole up at home. Jared can see what looks like an informal note taped to the door, and assumes it’s there to inform the world that they can wait ‘till the end of the week to replenish their freezers at home. He is mystified by New Englanders’ commitment to eating ice cream year-round, regardless of how cold the weather gets.

Across from the Bangor Savings Bank, Jensen parks in front of the East Street Bar on Main Street. He turns towards Jared, features highlighted by the daffodil lights outside the bar. For the first time—the _very_ first time ever—Jared catches a look Bunny might call, “tuckered out.”

Jared reaches out, trying to telegraph his movements so they’re not as jarring and random as usual. Gently, he cups the left side of Jensen’s face. He runs his thumb over Jensen’s cheekbone. To his surprise, Jensen closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

There’s still so much to learn. So many stories to exchange. So many questions. All this time to catch up on. But they don’t have to cram it all into one fortune-cookie-sized package and scarf it down right away.

Jared may not have a clear-cut, defined sense of self or what his future holds, and he regularly agrees with people who call him ‘a hot mess,’ but he lives as authentically as possible at any given moment.

That time in his early twenties when he snuck into a billionaire’s pool party in Silicon Valley and fucked a former astronaut? Dick that had actually been in orbit around the Earth? An exercise in authenticity.

That time in his mid-twenties when his mother flew out to Los Angeles and they went Christmas shopping at Burberry, where he discovered a pole in the back of the store and called out, “Hey, ma! Look at what I learned last week!” An exercise in authenticity.

That time in his mid-thirties when he volunteered on a crisis line for queer youth and took phone calls at two in the morning because his sleep schedule was so erratic he didn’t mind taking the overnights. An exercise in authenticity.

He has, in some shape or form, spent the majority of his life carving out an existence of his own. It’s good to finally have confirmation that Jensen, in his own way, has been doing the same.

Jensen opens his eyes. Jared greets him with a smile, then a smirk.

“You’re up past your bedtime,” he quips and nudges Jensen’s chin. 

“Suppose I am.”

“I hope it’s worth it.”

“You know, I think it is.”

Jared smiles. He gives a quick tug to Jensen’s ear. “Well, let’s get this show on the road, because I got plans for afterwards and I don’t need you falling asleep. And _then_ you can bring a bucket, bring a mop.”

Jensen returns the smile and shakes his head, then hops out. He carries Jared’s duffel bag of supplies and change of clothes. Jared considers slipping a five dollar bill into Jensen’s jeans as a tip, but would prefer to slip something else into those jeans instead. He slips his hands into fleece mittens instead. Why, exactly, does he live in a place where the air outside makes his face hurt?

He steps out of the truck and follows after Jensen.

After he opens the door to the bar for Jared, Jensen speaks, not expecting Jared to catch his words.

_“‘Bring a bucket and a mop…’_  
_"‘I’ll give you everything I got…’_  
_“‘Now from the top, make it drop…’"_

Jared is speechless for all of three seconds before he catches up to Jensen.

“Wait, WHAT? Jensen! You know the lyrics to ‘WAP’?! Seriously?!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**Drag is an art form.**

Critics can die mad about it.

Drag requires discipline, determination, pain, and suffering—and that’s _just_ for tucking.

Tucking is a well-known practice in trans and drag circles. In his twenties, Jared learned how to tuck from older queens and a former-queen-turned-doctor at the Los Angeles LGBT Center’s clinic.

If he could learn how to tuck, they assured him, the rest would fall into place.

At this point in his career, he’s an old pro at taping down his sex pistol and having it _stay_ down for an entire routine. He can also wear corsets without passing out, dance in evening gowns and platform heels without falling flat on his ass, pole dance, lip sync, _and_ properly apply his own makeup and secure his own wig.

He loves bringing his interpretation of drag to the people.

And while he may not have a fancy audio-visual engineering degree, Jared can rig the lights, sound equipment, and stage for any type of venue on a shoestring budget.

A lot of work goes into the setup. People like lip-syncing, schmoozing, and a good genderfuck. But they _love_ lights and excellent sound quality even more.

In an ideal world, Jared would find, hire, train, and perform with two backup dancers for the main number during every gig. He had a list of them at the ready in San Antonio and he could afford to bring exactly _none_ of them to Maine with him. So far, he hasn’t been in any kind of financial position to try again. And the chances of them being willing to move to Maine, out of a bustling urban area with more gig opportunities… a challenge on its own merits.

This makes lighting even more important when he prepares for gigs in the Pine Tree State. Staging is everything. He can make a set of bleachers look sexy.

Drag means dancing until the muscles in his legs burn. It’s all about pinning his wig on securely enough so that when he performs the football grip on a pole, he never, ever loses his updo. Drag is understanding the physics of bringing the center of his body closer to the pole, allowing him to perform moves from the midsection-down with at least two points of contact, motherfuckers. 

Drag means mastering the ability to rein in his emotions, stop crying, have a drink, and _still_ put on his makeup like a goddamned professional. 

The day he figured out his drag name was the day things _clicked_. So many aspects of his childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood made so much fucking sense. Tucking, taping, padding, dressing, and sweating buckets are small prices to pay for the applause.

And he never tires of the applause.

Whether the audience consists of a hundred people or one person, drag means putting on a _fabulous_ show.

It’s a flat-out lie that most drag queens are sworn enemies.

An overwhelming majority of queens look after their own. Miss Corra Rageous emcées tonight. A longtime-local queen, and one of the few Black queens in the entire region, she’s been in the biz long enough to remember when CBGB operated a small cafe and bar in the mid-1990s, which served, of all fucking things, New York-style pizza. When Jared arrived in scenic York County, Miss Corra Rageous was the first to offer a share of the stage at the East Street.

Together, Jared thinks they put on a decent show every third Friday night. Two up-and-coming-queens in their thirties take turns opening. Tonight, Gal Gallant opens for Jared with a Christmas-themed Britney routine. Jared wishes her well in those red leather platform stiletto boots, because _ouch_. They look about as fun to walk in as the baby section at Penney’s. 

Jared checks and rechecks his face to make sure that skin hasn’t started melting and that his makeup remains in place. He shoves any thoughts about Jensen being in the audience into a trunk, wraps it in chains, and throws it into the Atlantic Ocean of his mind. He’s a professional, dammit. And professionals don’t get nervous before a gig just because the potential love of their life is sitting in the cheap seats. No. A consummate professional straightens her padded bosom, holds her head up high and elegantly emerges from her pantry-turned-dressing-room to kick some gender-nonconforming _ass._

Throughout his forty-five cumulative minutes of stage time, Jared goes through three outfit changes, two wig swaps, one set of false eyelashes, and a partridge in a fucking pear tree. He finishes to effusive applause—the kind that reminds him why he bothers subjecting his skin, feet, and dick to the whole thing in the first place. Walking off stage, he knows _exactly_ how fucking good he is at his job. If anyone in the area needs a drag queen for Christmas, they can give his ding-a-ling a ring.

In the ersatz ‘dressing room,’ Jared launches into the fastest post-show cleanup in history. Bring out the foaming cleansers, chemical peels, beauty water with papaya extract, eye creme, chokeberry serum, and adenosine moisturizer. Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! He takes a great deal of care measuring out exact amounts from the tiny, expensive pots of gunk. Everything has to last him until he figures out what the hell he’s doing with his life in the Big Picture. There are things he can find on clearance, haggle down, or exchange sexual favors for, but these things rarely include gourmet-quality skin products.

He _does_ have some money in his trust fund left after the chaos that was his twenties, but it’s money he prefers not to touch, or, better yet, think about. One, he’s not going to touch that money for things like makeup or shoes after the fallout with his mother back then, and two, it forces him to confront very uncomfortable feelings about his privilege and place in the world as a white, cis, non-disabled male with ties to Old Money. His mother may not live on the East Coast anymore, but she’s still besties with big-sis Aunt Georgina. To The Family, their place in the world revolves around accomplishments and security.

Jared prefers for his world to revolve around experiences and connections. Living that Trust Fund Life comes with baggage, and it’s not the kind of baggage that goes away with the purchase of a new Hermès scarf. He’ll never starve, and he’ll never go homeless, but the acknowledgment that the appreciation for luxury brands, haute cuisine, and couture fashion is valued equally by both wealthy white women and drag queens is a cognitive dissonance Jared doesn’t care to examine too closely by the light of day, but even so, it rankles. 

Little by little, Jared’s reflection in the mirror undergoes its final transformation for the evening. He applies a simple coat of nude lip gloss and calls it a night. 

He changes into his favorite worn, Stefano Ricci black silk cashmere sweater and Brioni dark-wash denim jeans. He trades his heels for a pair of Chelsea boots from L.L. Bean that he’s still trying to convince himself look fashionable. They may not be his favorite purple-velour Oxfords, and they’re not the platform/heel Docs he wore on the trip here, but his feet thank him all the same. There was a time in his life he could wear platform heels for twelve hours without missing a step. These days, he can still wear platform heels for twelve hours, but _only_ during drag emergencies. _Today_ , he concedes that wearing shoes with actual treads (even if they’re not completely weather-worthy) is a necessary sacrifice in the interest of not going ass-over-teakettle on the walk from the club to Jensen’s truck, or from Jensen’s truck to… well, wherever comes after that tonight.

Finally free to drink liquids, he downs a bottle of water and a bottle of red Gatorade. He likes the tint the Gatorade leaves on his lips and tongue. Hydrated and ready to face people again, Jared steps out of the Land of Make-Believe and into the decent-sized gathering of bar patrons. He does his fair share of mingling in the process, thanking folks for being there despite the weather, while simultaneously looking for the specific person whose ass he’d like to grab. 

Yesterday, he made a Herculean effort any time he had to interact with most of the adult attendees at Aunt Georgina’s. He’s fairly certain someone, if not Aunt Georgina herself, has already relayed information about his attendance and dramatic exit from the soirée to his mother back in San Antonio. Tonight could not be more different—he chits, he chats, he gabs, _and_ he yaks. People actually _care_ about his opinions on the commercialization of drag culture, _Paris is Burning_ , and how Kardashian makeup is drag makeup, but does anyone see Jared’s million dollar paycheck and TV deal? 

Jared efficiently makes his way from the back of the bar to the front without blowing anyone off. Or blowing anyone at all. _Will wonders never cease?_

At the main bar, he spots Miss Corra Rageous, who has thus far stayed in-character and in full battle dress since the close of the show. Her hands flutter as she speaks to a handsome confidant. Said confidant leans towards her, not a hint of tension in his shoulders or jaw. Miss Corra makes her infamous rawhide joke, which causes Jensen to crack the fuck up. He says something to her, a knowing expression on his face. They talk like they’re old friends. 

Holy hell, maybe they _are_ old friends. Jensen moved up here ten full years ago, and it never occurred to Jared that Jensen might know anyone like Miss Corra. He pictured Jensen as a complete Hemingway—devoted to the sea—mermaids, maybe, but not drag queens.

 _How_ he knows Miss Corra is even more interesting. No one in The Family could have mentioned anything to the Aunts, otherwise Jared would undoubtedly have heard about it from his mother. So Jensen either happens to know Miss Corra from the grocery store or he finds ways to fly under the radar.

Maybe Jensen himself is secretly a drag queen. Maybe he incorporates a coastal fishing theme into his routines. Now _that_ would be a helluva show. But. As amusing as it is to picture Jensen in a red leather bodysuit, holding up kitschy prop lobsters and ‘singing’ to the B-52’s, Jared appreciates the real Jensen before him. Jensen could fucking stop traffic looking like he does right now. 

At some point during the show, he shucked off the parka, the overshirt, _and_ the henley—leaving only a fitted black v-neck tee shirt. He leans forward on the bar to grab a beer, which gives Jared a view so sweet, staples and duct tape together couldn't keep him tucked now. Walking closer, two new details on Jensen’s person emerge—a crisply-folded black bandana in his back left pocket, and a black leather cuff on his left wrist. The cuff has two straps fastened into matching silver buckles.

Jared catches Jensen’s gaze for a split second, pupils dilating.

“There he is,” Miss Corra says, turning to Jared. She hands him a plain white envelope—his share of tips from tonight, and the agreed-upon fee for the monthly gig. “You were _marvelous_ tonight. So inspired!”

“Can’t imagine where the inspiration came from,” Jared responds, shooting a look at Jensen. “And thank you. Thank you for emcéeing tonight.”

“My pleasure, doll. And how lucky am I that I got to catch up with this gem?” Miss Corra extends her hand to Jensen, palm down, her neon pink acrylics sharp enough to save Christmas from any Grinch.

Jensen, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. He takes her hand in his, gives it a squeeze, kisses it, and releases. “Good seeing you, Cor,” he says, then turns to Jared. “Ready?”

So. Many. Questions.

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Jared answers, eyebrows raised. “Lead the way.”

Outside, Mother Nature gifts them with yet more snow on the ground and a drastic change in temperature. Instead of merely wow-it’s-cold, the air threatens to cut off any exposed skin with a rusty spoon. Even Jensen shivers as the truck warms up, but he laughs when Jared compares the cold to milkshakes and frappes, and gently corrects Jared’s pronunciation of the latter, after he naïvely rhymes it with ‘latté.’ Jensen notes that New Englanders are pretty protective of the things they’ve invented, and that particular one is a hill they’ll die on. 

In punchy, breathy voices, they talk about their favorite things to eat in the summer. Jared begs Jensen to cook him up a lobster boil sooner rather than later. Jensen admits he misses terrible Tex-Mex. They both agree that meat tastes better in Texas and Jared cracks a horrible joke right after.

On the road again, Jared makes an executive decision. He calls Bunny and tells her the roads are so bad they might have to hire a dog sled team.

“So, in the interest of the safety of all parties involved, I’ll stay at Jensen’s place tonight, where I’ll be safe from avalanches, the abominable snowman, carrot-wielding snowmen looking for revenge...” he rattles off.

“My place is farther out than hers from here,” Jensen says, because he ain’t got a lick of sense.

Jared backhands him in the abdomen from the passenger seat. “It’s _fine_. He totally invited me to stay over, won’t take no for an answer. Okay, gotta go. We’ll be around early to clear the driveway, but so help me, Bunny, if I see you pick up a shovel, you’re grounded, young lady.”

Bunny tells him, in her own loving way, that she doesn’t give two shits what two consenting grown men decide to do about overnight lodging—they’d just better be careful on the roads. Or _else_. In yet another former life, Bunny must have made a Grade-A mobster. 

There’s something to be said about riding in a truck, sitting beside Jensen, with the heater on and the Eagles playing quietly on the radio. It feels like the beginning of many Somethings. Jared can’t quite picture what his life will be like once Bunny’s fully recovered, but an idea in the back of his mind just won’t give up. 

“Hey.” Jared tries not to fidget in his seat. “You don’t have a squeaky-clean image you need to protect in town or anything, right? ‘Cause this snack?” He points to himself. “ _Not_ pure as the driven snow.”

The windshield wipers cut through swirling white dust. A tow truck heads in the opposite direction, no doubt on its way to earn some overtime rescuing an intrepid-but-idiotic-and-inexperienced idiot “from away” who failed to heed the locals’ warnings about the road conditions.

Jensen gives Jared a daring glance for a split second before replying in his typical Jensen way. “Nope.”

Jared nods. “ _Phew_. Okay, then. Because I would definitely dress in drag 24/7 and convince people that I’m your totally-cis, definitely-heterosexual wife.”

“Quite the offer.”

“Ah, you’re lucky you’re stuck with me _now_. I was insufferable in my twenties.”

“Thank goodness for that. I’m certain you’re right.”

“Hey!”

“All I want,” Jensen says, eyes on the road, “is to live my life the way _I_ want. And for people to leave me alone at parties.”

“Last one’s a bit unrealistic, don’t you think? I mean, Aunt Georgina asked me twenty questions before she even let me into the house.”

“Why do you think I tell the kids fishing stories?”

“For your own good health?”

“No,” Jensen snorts. “So they’ll go tell their parents and they’ll all leave me alone.”

“You sly dog, and here I was thinking you actually enjoyed the company of children. The more people think you’re the captain from Jaws, the better. Gotcha. Well.” Jared pretends to hold a compact open and fix his makeup. “I volunteer to play the shark.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**Greased Lightning and Jensen’s superior driving skills make the trip north a piece of coconut-frosted cake.** Lights on the front porch welcome their arrival. While they wait for the garage door to open, Jared absorbs as many details about Jensen’s house as possible.

The Craftsman-style house, in its lightly-wooded setting, looks like someone has been taking prodigious care of it for the past eight years. Jared fooled around with an architect once— _Lance, from Long Beach_ —and listened to his lecture on the virtues of American craftsmanship for hours before _finally_ getting to fuck. Regardless, Jared admires the style Jensen chose, vastly different than any of their relatives.’ A simple-yet-classy wreath hangs on the front door, accompanied by pre-lit garland fixed to the railing of the wraparound porch. 

Jared wonders if Jensen chose these decorations or if they were gifts.

Inside the three-car garage, Jared spots— _what else?—_ an extensive-yet-tidy workshop in the bay farthest from the house door. He has no idea why anyone would need that many power tools, but he did watch a DIY fucking machine tutorial on Fetlife the other day.

He steps out of the truck and looks around. Snowblower. Shovels. Salt. Kayak. Bicycle. _Motorcycle?_

So. Many. Questions.

But Jared’s not necessarily _here_ to ask questions. 

“All right,” he says, as Jensen rounds the corner of the truck. “The garage checks out. Everything looks normal here.”

Jensen rubs his beard. “Didn’t know you were the garage inspector.”

“Oh, I don’t fuck _anyone_ without taking a peek in their garage first.”

“Good advice. ...I think.”

Jared motions towards the house. “I _do_ need to see the rest of the house. Specifically your bedroom. Specifically your mattress.”

Jensen nods and clears his throat. He moves from side to side, holding Jared’s duffel and looking at the cement floor. “Yeah, I’m just…”

Silence is a mean, tough, ol’ bastard. Jared distrusts most silence. It makes him edgy and paranoid. He’d eat three slices of Aunt Barbara’s holiday fruitcake if it meant he didn’t have to sit in the presence of silence. But he can’t always be finishing Jensen’s sentences for him, or prompting him to keep talking, or filling the silence with his own word-vomit. So, he waits. Patiently.

Fifteen full seconds later and _hallelujah_ , Jensen finds the words. 

“Internally? I’m freaking the fuck out.”

Jared can’t help but laugh. He shakes his head and shrugs. “Honey, internally, we’re _all_ freaking the fuck out. That’s the human experience.”

The tiniest hint of a smile tugs at Jensen’s lips. He nods. “I just can’t believe I’m about to… bring you home. Finally. That’s all.”

For once in his life, and probably for the first time in Jensen’s physical presence, Jared is speechless.

His eyebrows rise far enough on his forehead they achieve orbit. He closes and opens his mouth before closing it again. The synapses in his brain go on strike. He looks down at the cement floor, mirroring Jensen a moment earlier, just to try and chase away the blush on his face and some snow that got in his eyes. 

“Finally,” Jared echoes, trying not to mumble. He sniffs, clears his throat, and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes connect with Jensen’s and he offers up a smile. “Took us long enough.”

After a beat, Jensen busts out laughing. Full-body, eye-crinkling, rib-shaking laughter. He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and tugs on a piece of Jared’s hair.

“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he says, Texas in his voice. 

“Hey! Watch the hair, pal!”

Jensen waves him off, pushes the button to close the garage door, and heads for the door leading to the house. He opens the door for Jared, hanging up his keys in a practiced motion. In the darkness of the breezeway for the split second it takes Jensen to follow and close the door behind them, scents of _home_ surround them. Sandalwood. Spice. Fabric softener.

The lights turn on at the flick of a switch. Following proper protocol, they each take off their boots and set them on the mat next to the door. Jensen makes a comment about Jared’s socks—neon pink, one of his favorite pairs—as he hangs their coats. But Jared doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy _admiring_. His socks stand out against the sparkling, rich hardwood floors that seem to stretch out for miles. Can he fall in love with flooring? Because this, this is it.

Jensen takes them through the kitchen—a religious experience in more unfinished, reclaimed wood, offset by the pearl tile backsplash, granite countertops, and stainless steel. There’s a lopsided, adorably-precariously-constructed mostly-house-shaped gingerbread “lobster shack” on the kitchen island. It was lovingly-crafted by two of the little-kid cousins in town for the family holidays, gifted by their parents, grateful for Jensen’s willingness to act impressed and flattered at the gesture and effort.

Quietly, Jensen provides a few details, moving them into the great room— _great room_ , not _living room_ —at a relaxed and easy pace. Most of the flooring on the first floor is reclaimed wood he picked up from the Auction Barn in Aroostook, with the help of a coworker. Most of the pieces are resawn from barn beams, he explains, pointing at a few planks. This gave the floor cleaner, more uniform lines without sacrificing the integrity of the wood itself. By working with locals, he was able to actively participate in the milling and backbreaking-but-worth-it subsequent installation. From another auction, this one in Vermont, he bought the reclaimed hand-hewn barn timbers for the beams used in the living room ceiling—exposed oak, durable and unique. The beams act as the rib cage of the house. 

A large, sleek, leather sectional sits underneath them, accompanied by a honey-colored coffee table Jensen had custom-made by a friend, with an intriguingly-not-out-of-place Turkish carpet underneath, all impeccably positioned facing a large fireplace, surrounded by a floor-to-ceiling stone veneer. 

He describes the heart pine used to make the fireplace mantel, and the built-in bookshelves that frame it. The wood came from a sawmill in Bangor, built in the 1840s. He runs his hand over a section of the leading edge, and talks about feeling like an ant bringing things back to the colony as he gathered things for the house. He’s enjoyed woodworking more than he thought he would, though his father wasn’t surprised in the least. On the mantel rests the spoked wheel of a ship—a formidable focal point. Jensen looks at it with affection in his eyes. His boss and crewmates pitched in and bought it for him from a museum sale for his ten-year anniversary on the water.

The bookshelves appear to be occupied by mostly non-fiction, sorted according to what looks like the Dewey Decimal System. Everything from woodworking to DIY-plumbing to historical texts about the history of coastal fishing in New England, and academic texts on farming in Texas. Curiously, there are no academic texts about law. But there are three separate encyclopedic volumes of birds of North America. Jared’s eyes skim over an entire shelf dedicated to art books about women before landing on a shelf of books about art by, for, and featuring men. These books, Jared recognizes, especially the _Tom of Finland_ collections.

So. Many. Questions.

Oversized French doors open out onto the covered porch, where Jared catches a glimpse of a small hot tub. Inside, the combination of exposed beams, buttermilk walls, warm atmospheric lighting, and gold accents throughout the space pulls everything together. Warm earth tones. Knots, burls, and grain. Nail holes, and hand-saw marks, left behind by the craftsmen who worked with the wood in its second life. Reincarnated into a third life here in Jensen’s home, they lend a feeling of history and presence to the space.

Talking about lumber was not at the top of Jared’s list of turn-ons before. Now, he wonders what it would be like to fuck Jensen inside Home Depot, because _damn_.

Smaller details, like the light-colored throw pillows against the dark of the leather sofa, and the folded quilt draped over the back contribute to the room looking “lived in,” but not “used.” It looks like the ironically-named winter “cottage” spreads in cold-weather-month issues of _Architectural Digest_. Off of the great room in what would otherwise be a dining room, one wall has a fairly sizable television, a leather loveseat that matches the sectional in the great room, a coffee table, and a definitely-lived-in matching recliner. Jared raises an eyebrow, as this doesn’t seem to mesh with the whole Papa-Hemingway lifestyle.

Jensen deadpans, “Where else you think I’m gonna watch the Cowboys?”

Jared looks at him, askance. “Ten years up here and they haven’t converted you?”

Jensen replies, somber, “The Pats can go _fuck_ themselves. _The Family_ may be _from_ here, but I’m still my Daddy’s son, and _I_ was raised in _Dallas._ ”

Pausing in the little-used foyer before they head upstairs, Jensen looks to Jared for reassurance. “Am I boring you?”

“It’s not obvious that I’m hangin’ on every word?”

“You’re quiet.” After a beat, he adds, “For once.”

Jared rolls his eyes. “I’m _listening_ , Jensen.”

“That means you like it, right?”

“I’m having a Pemberley moment,” Jared snickers. “Was borderline about you, Mr. Darcy, but now that I see where you _live_ …”

Jensen snorts and does an eye roll of his own. “Taking that as a yes, you like it.”

“‘Like’ is the wrong word,” Jared counters, following Jensen up the stairs. “I’m _also_ enjoying _this_ view, thank you.”

“Just being a good host.” 

The flight of stairs takes them to the first of two spare bedrooms, which Jensen points out, but skips showing them in favor of steering Jared towards the master bedroom. Something in Jared’s brain cheers before it short circuits again at the sight of what is the most _impressive_ bed he’s ever seen.

Once more, Jensen’s voice resonates against a space inside Jared’s chest.

Their second-cousin Gretchen helped Jensen design and put together the interior. One of her best finds was a hundred-year-old slab of solid cherry. A rich tone more red than brown, Jensen worked with two carpenters in Bangor to restore it, and assemble it into a headboard. With some luck and a little goodwill, they sourced additional cherry planks to form the rest of the bed frame. Jensen had to remind Gretchen—twice—that he didn’t want a footboard. Gretchen, Jared remembers, is probably about 5’4”, on a good day, and her husband couldn’t be any taller than 5’8”—short people do not inherently comprehend Tall People Problems like footboards. Jared’s heart sings as he recognizes that it’s a California King, and he’ll be able to stretch _all_ the way out—unimpeded by a too-small bed frame—comfortably in this bed.

Jensen wanted something authentic, something custom, in every room. Meticulous about his choices, he took his time selecting different items that would be a combination of functional and appealing.

He bought the comforter from a textile shop pretty far north that makes them by hand—the cover color reminds him of early-morning fog on the water.

Jared reaches out and touches the bed. His fingertips graze the kitten-soft gray fabric.

“It’s wonderful,” Jared murmurs, turning to the rest of the room. His eyes fight a battle—does he watch Jensen light up the fireplace, because _that_ strikes a primal chord in Jared’s loins something fierce? Or does he continue to take in the rest of their surroundings? 

Ultimately, Jared decides on both— _both are good_. He tries not to give himself double vision just because he needed to witness an absolute stunner set some wood on fire. 

Just like the great room below them on the first floor, exposed wood beams line the ceiling. A wrought-iron chandelier hangs from the center cross beam, its extensions shaped into deer antlers. The south wall duplicates the one below it in the great room, albeit with a smaller fireplace, and the surround a little narrower. A raw-edge single-piece of wood comprises the mantel, set in the stone veneer. Black and white pictures in sturdy, coordinating but artfully-mismatched frames sit on the mantel—Jensen on a lobster boat, his parents’ 40th wedding anniversary portrait, a snapshot of his late grandmother in her youth, and…

Jensen takes the last frame off the mantel. He holds in it his hands for a moment before passing it to Jared. 

“Don’t laugh,” Jensen says, his tone tense with worry.

A picture of the two of them together, aged fifteen and nineteen, stares back up at Jared.

It was Aunt Georgina’s idea that year to put together a collage of family portraits. She requested every family member to submit a _tasteful_ portrait of themselves. Jared and Jensen were on the farm when she made that—what seemed at the time—ridiculous request. Aunt Sloane had Georgina’s blessing to take Jared and Jensen’s pictures together.

That summer, Jared almost broke his left arm falling out of a cedar elm tree. Aunt Sloane showed him how to tie latigo knots on saddles and made him practice for _hours_. He learned how to drive on one of the beat-up, disintegrating Ford F-150s Uncle Ellison kept around because he couldn’t part with them. Learning to drive stick in a vehicle that fought back was an unexpectedly valuable life skill. Jared’s favorite activity was driving down dirt roads at night, windows open, radio blaring, shouting along to Led Zeppelin. 

Next to him the entire time?

The nineteen-year-old with the crooked, shy smile in the picture.

Jared ends up laughing—and crying. 

“Jack,” he manages to wrench out. “You…”

Jensen nods. For the first time in probably their entire lives, he finishes one of Jared’s sentences. “Yeah, Jay.”

With care, Jared places the frame back in its place on the center of the mantel. Gratitude and longing spark his next series of movements. 

He brings Jensen in for a one-two-three embrace before kissing him. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**The kiss carries with it some similarities to the first one they shared last night.**

An edge of desperation drives the clash of teeth, tongue, and lips. Jared’s fingertips find the curve of Jensen’s jaw and the alluring line of his throat. The scratch of Jensen’s beard against his chin sends flares of pleasure down Jared’s spine.

Jensen controls the depth and rhythm of each kiss. He tilts Jared’s chin down and to the right, rewarding Jared with deep, slow kisses when Jared’s hands move to his waist, and finally— _finally_ —his ass. Jensen encourages the touch, changing the angle of his hips. Jared breaks their kisses in a punched-out, carnal moan, feeling the generous outline of Jensen’s cock through rough denim.

They break for a moment and exchange a quick series of wordless questions. With a bold smile, Jensen nods towards his bed. Jared, of course, accepts the invitation. Once more, Jensen starts talking, his tone relaxed and infused with desire.

He shares details in steady succession, facts he’s kept to himself over the years.

In his first year of law school, he made a personal commitment to expanding his perspective on the world. Maybe he just needed to see more. The East Coast provided him with myriad possibilities for internal and external exploration. It’s the East Coast, he feels, that helped him graduate from youth into adulthood.

On the first of many Amtrak trips from Boston to New York City, he began a long-term ritual. Halfway through the journey, usually when the train swapped locomotives in New Haven, he would change out of whatever vanilla clothes he had on and into things that served more like a uniform. In these clothes he could be himself, or not—it was his choice. He could be who he _wanted_ to be that day. Most often, he wore a pair of broken-in indigo Levi 501s, a black, short-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up an inch, and a pair of black leather Frye harness boots. Those boots saw it all—every subway station, every chaotic street, every set of fire escape stairs, every crowded concert hall, every bar, every museum, and every private-entry, invitation-only affair.

His voice lustrous and dark beside Jared in bed, he recalls his first sexual encounter with another man. His innate reserved nature made him come across as calm rather than skittish, something he was thankful for later. He topped, mostly because his partner preferred to bottom. Sometimes he wonders what would have happened had that partner preferred to top. Would his life be any different? Ridiculous to think that, right? But he does, from time to time, think about that. And that night, he didn’t sleep at all afterwards, too invested in his thoughts, unwilling to stop stripping pieces of his psyche down and then piecing them back together. The memory of that particular Amtrak ride back to Boston occurs mostly when he feels self-conscious and insecure—when his soul craves something hot and spiced.

That same partner introduced Jensen to a friend of his, who worked at the New York Philharmonic. Jensen moved through different circles as he met more people. Musician circles. Artist circles. Theater. Dance.

One night, at a bar that used to operate as a speakeasy, an artist approached Jensen with a confident smile, complimented Jensen’s choice of drink, and asked if he’d like to go back to her place. Jensen knew her work, he’d seen it multiple times in galleries and shows. He said yes. It was two in the morning. They took a cab to her townhouse in Chelsea. She admired his hands as she led him to her bedroom; he remembers she had the most comfortable mattress. He was unwrapping a condom when she asked him if he could slap her, hard, across the face at the peak of orgasm.

He had to ask himself: could he do that?

It went further than ‘playful.’ And it was different from the spanking he’d done with former partners—mostly women, and mostly during his years as an undergraduate—and what he used to consider ‘rough.’ What she asked for was specific, with the understanding that if he didn’t want to, he didn’t have to. It required a different set of boundaries, a different tone, a different mood, and a completely different level of intent.

Could he intentionally inflict pain on another human being for the purpose of their pleasure? He didn’t profess to _love_ any of these partners, but he did care for them, in a certain way. Could inflicting intentional pain be a form of caring?

He did it. And he thinks, to this day, that he only did it because, as soon as he agreed, she leaned down and murmured, _”Please.”_

It made the question feel more like a request—one that was his choice to grant or deny. The vulnerability of it made perfect sense after that.

Manhattan taught him that being an effective dominant requires empathy. A sharp sense of intuition didn’t hurt— _pun intended_ —either.

One of his friends from the artist-circle took him to his very first drag show at a lounge on 56th and 3rd. A relatively short trek from the Upper East Side, Jensen made his way back to that club multiple times. He enjoyed the performances, the people, and the drama. One night, the queens demanded him served up on a platter. Flattered— _and intrigued_ —he acquiesced. They ate him up. It was his first, and so far only, experience with group sex. He enjoyed himself and came to appreciate the introduction to genders beyond male and female. When the club closed five years ago, Jensen took the weekend off and spent it with friends in Manhattan, where they gathered in the club until it was shuttered for the final time. He framed one of the posters from its walls.

Jensen loops the past back to the present. He hasn’t slept with anyone in two years. It simply wasn’t a necessity, nor was it in the forefront of his mind. Still, he had actually planned to tell Jared how he truly felt at Georgina’s last night. Ensley’s unfortunate rejection created a timely opportunity to do it, instead of how he’d originally planned—outside, on the porch. It was only last week that he decided that he’d had enough denial, enough suppression. Jared _lived_ in Maine now, even if it was temporary. They could not avoid each other forever and Jensen didn’t want to try.

He looked at the situation as objectively as possible and repeatedly came back to the same conclusion: he could not live without knowing if maybe, just maybe, this could happen.

So three days ago, he went out and got tested. Everything came back clear. If Jared would rather use a condom, not a problem. If Jared prefers not to to have penetrative sex, not a problem. If Jared prefers not to do _anything_ sexual in nature, not a problem. Jensen will listen and respect whatever he needs and wants.

Jared, unclothed, yet warmed by desire, bedding, and the fire crackling in the hearth beyond the foot of the bed, laughs: small, hushed. He huddles close to Jensen, speaking with fondness in his voice.

“I’m pretty good at telling folks what I need or want,” he murmurs. “And will always tell you what I _don’t_ like. I expect you to do the same, Jack.”

Jensen looks down for a moment before peering back up and nodding. “I got that.”

“Good. I had my last test six months ago, right after— _ugh._ In a surprising turn of events, between the move, helping Bun, and gigs, I haven’t had time to shag anyone out here—or the inclination. Until. Well. Here we are. So, I’m good without gift wrap if you are.”

A beat of silence, this kind comfortable and soothing, passes by and cements their mutual understanding. Jensen asks, “Hard limits?”

Jared considers his list for a moment, then replies, “Humiliation, food, any marks I have to make any effort to cover with makeup for performing, and any bodily fluid that isn’t tears, sweat, or come.” With a huff, he adds, “I’m forty-two, dammit. I don’t have to pretend I want to impress anyone any more.”

Jensen mulls. “Hmm. So, marks that _don’t_ have to be covered up, and/or marks that will be gone by the time you perform next?”

Jared chirps, “I like a man who plans ahead.” Turning to lie on his stomach, Jared tosses his hair over his shoulder; he looks at Jensen and winks. “I don’t know if you know this, but I think it’s pretty sexy you’re into kinky shit.”

Jensen erupts in laughter, which in turn, makes Jared laugh, as well. For the next few minutes, they tumble around in bed—teasing, testing, entwined together. Jensen reaches for a remote on the nightstand. He turns off all the lights in the room with one button and opens the blinds to the windows. Clusters of Eastern white pine trees make up their view of the outside world.

If Jared could channel Cher and turn back time, he might join Jensen in Manhattan. Or Boston. Or Dallas. He might change a few decisions throughout his life, but he’d still end up in Maine, he’s sure of it.

Light reflected off the clouds collects in pools across the bed, mottled by the shadow of falling snow. Jared accepts a deluge of kisses to his mouth, throat, chest, and inner thighs.

They’ve seen each other naked before, but never like this.

Jensen comfortably slots himself into the vee of Jared’s legs. Jared smirks at Jensen as he eases into a certain mental space. It’s probably— _probably_ —no secret to Jensen that Jared enjoys the role of submitting. It’s a role that he was born to play.

Leaning over, Jensen kisses Jared—slow, sweet, with just the right amount of heat. He lines up their hips and grinds their cocks together, adding lube from a small bottle from the drawer in the bedside table. The glide is exquisite. Jared watches the muscles in Jensen’s shoulders and biceps work, holding him up. The outline of his form twists with every rocking motion of his hips. Jared is mesmerized by the fluidity in Jensen’s movements. Maybe this is what happens when men spend so much time on the water—they develop a sixth sense of balance.

Jared tries to collect details. Jensen is, to put it simply, hung. Five different jokes flit through Jared’s mind, but none take shape. Jared’s attention stays on anything related to Jensen’s cock and how it feels: heavy, generous in thickness and in length against his own. Their chests rise and fall in an escalating rhythm. Skin on skin, they start to sweat.

Jensen slows the pace of their movements and motion. He times his breathing in a way that reminds Jared of swimming underwater. Jared doesn’t dare to match it, still too wound up. Every tempered drag of Jensen’s cock against his own jolts Jared’s nerves into overdrive. Jensen pauses only to spit in his hand. He strokes his cock, squeezing the base, flicking his thumb over the flushed, leaking head. Spit adds warmth to the lube and to their slick, steady grind. Jared's head tilts back, exposing his throat, and he moans as Jensen places wet kisses there, then down his chest, and further south, until his beard drags along Jared’s inner thighs. Jared spreads his legs to make room and to offer access.

With his left hand firmly gripping Jared’s cock, Jensen uses his right hand to explore the planes of Jared’s thighs, hips, and ass. His tongue joins in, creating an interplay of rough and dry versus soft and wet. The first skim of Jensen’s fingers against the tight ring of muscle makes Jared tense in anticipation.

Jared inhales and lets out a whine as Jensen presses one slicked finger inside. Led by enthusiasm, guided by technique, Jensen wrings a series of longer and longer moans out of Jared. His tempo and pressure increase. Jared lifts his hips, grabs Jensen by the hair, and works himself over the squelch of Jensen’s second and third fingers. Breathless, just before he closes his eyes, Jared notices the skylights high above them. He shouts something in response to Jensen slipping each finger out, then sliding back in, directly pushing on Jared’s prostate. All the while, Jensen’s tongue flickers over the sensitive head of Jared’s cock. Spit and lube. Tongue and fingers.

Jensen breaks out of Jared’s grip and pulls away. He wipes his mouth, a satisfied look on his face. Jared responds with a look of his own—a challenge. Time for his secret weapon to leap into action: his mouth.

That was _good._ But he wants _more._

And he’s not too proud to beg.

Gratitude and relief course through Jared as Jensen slides his cock into Jared’s mouth. Fully erect, Jensen’s cock forces Jared to breathe through his nose, pop his jaw, and open his mouth _all_ the way. In a single, suave motion, Jared takes Jensen in all the way to the base. Jensen groans, the muscles in his thighs tightening as he leans back, tilts his hips, and slowly, slowly slides out of Jared’s mouth with a loud, wet _pop._

Jensen makes it clear that he’s not here for a _simple_ blow job. He needs more than deep throating. He wants Jared to spit, wants him to gulp, wants him to gag, wants him to choke—he wants to touch that little dangly thing that swings in the back of Jared’s throat.

Jared consents. He locks eyes with Jensen as he runs his tongue from base to tip. From here, Jensen calls the shots. He decides exactly when he’ll allow Jared to breathe. He fucks into Jared’s mouth, rough and uninhibited. In short, firm commands, he tells Jared when to hold and when to suck. His right hand pulls at a fistful of Jared’s hair, sometimes to change the angle, sometimes just to make Jared’s eyes water.

Control. Direction. Attention.

Jared craves it all. Jensen gives him all of it.

It’s a wet, filthy blowjob. Tears cloud Jared’s eyes. A permanent flush fixes over his face. Spit and precome drip down his chin, onto his chest. The world is a thrashing sea. Jensen continues fucking into his mouth, using it, wrecking it—making Jared fight to keep up.

Not a second too late, Jensen pulls Jared up for a kiss.

Jared sputters and gasps, shaking all over, hard as _diamonds._

Jensen sweeps in. He grabs Jared by the chin, draws out a deep kiss, then, in a smooth set of motions, flips Jared over. Jared’s whole body shivers—Jensen is that fucking _strong._ Jared’s lungs work overtime, taking in as much hearth-warmed air as he can. With Jensen pinning his arms behind him, Jared pushes his hips back. The motion wins him punishment—Jensen slaps his cock against Jared’s ass, grinding, but nothing more. Jared tests the boundaries of Jensen’s intuition, his patience, and his reason.

Observing the need for discipline, Jensen uses his free hand to strike Jared’s ass in a series of brisk, intense smacks. Jared’s cock throbs as it swings under him, heavy, full, and neglected, dripping precome into the sheets, where he’s face-down on the bed, cheeks and nose pressed into the mattress, hips propped up. Jensen applies more lube, both to himself and Jared, the sensation and sound an exciting tell. Jared shouts into the layers of fabric and springs beneath him the moment he feels the large, blunt tip of Jensen’s cock push inside him. Natural resistance makes Jensen work—and with enough concentrated pressure, he presses into Jared.

“Oh _fuck,”_ Jared grits out, shoulders trembling. “Jack!”

Pleasure crashes against Jared’s senses, bombarding him on all fronts. His cock is crushed against his stomach as Jensen pounds into him from behind. Jensen tightens his grip on Jared’s hair and tugs on the downthrust. The added lube amplifies the sound of Jared taking Jensen’s cock in long, authoritative strokes. He lets go of Jared’s hair only to use his hands to frame Jared’s ass.

His voice jagged like the cliffs over the water, Jensen growls out praise and a command.

Jared couldn’t spell his own name right now if he _tried._ But he _can_ follow orders once Jensen heaves his weight to the side and rolls them both.

Jensen lies down, flat on his back, stroking his cock. Following instinct, Jared lifts his hips over Jensen’s. They each work to line up just right. Imagining himself a deep blue wave, Jared leans forward, the start of an energetic storm—the kind that has the power to drag men under to fathomless depths. He holds himself up, riding the adrenaline rush. His thighs shake with the effort of working his hips down, sinking onto Jensen’s cock inch by inch. He fights the tempest of his impending climax, not wanting this to end, not just yet.

_“I’m—”_ Jared gasps, fully seated, his voice almost unrecognizable. His heartbeat drums in his ears as he loses the battle and succumbs to his body’s turbulent demands. His cock bobs like an incoming tide. _“Jack_ —I can’t— _I’m gonna come—”_

At this angle, the full length and girth of Jensen’s cock fills him up, stuffs him, and pushes him to the edge. Jensen strokes Jared with his right hand, thumb pressing against that particularly-sensitive spot underneath the crown. Jared squeezes his eyes shut and works his hips down, down, down, jamming the head of Jensen’s cock against his sweet spot over and over again…

“Fuck,” Jensen growls, taking his hand off of Jared’s cock. _“Fuck!”_

Jared rides Jensen hard and fast, past the point of permission to finish. The orgasm starts inside him, pulsing and hot, and works its way up and out his cock. Jensen makes Jared cream. Even without Jensen touching him, Jared comes, spurting hot all over Jensen’s abdomen and chest. His ass clenches, milking the thick cock buried inside him. His internal walls seize and convulse around Jensen. Jensen lets loose, a man possessed, determined to fuck Jared hard and put him up wet. Seconds later, Jensen comes, his cock twitching and throbbing as it pumps Jared full. He sits up and presses their foreheads together, emptying inside Jared.

A touch dizzy and a lot wrung out, Jared steadies himself against Jensen. He can’t believe he’s actually shaking and gasping for breath, like he just ran the world’s best marathon: the marathon for dick. He files that reference away for later.

Jensen brings him in close for a sticky, sweaty embrace. Tender and luscious, he kisses Jared, easing him down and rolling him onto his side, ensuring that Jared rests against a nest of pillows. The water Jared pictures in his mind is calm. He soaks up the quiet joy of the moment, all of it as new as the snow falling outside.

“Good job, Princess,” Jensen murmurs. “You were perfect.”

Jared always associated Maine with boredom. Time moves at a different pace here, different from anywhere else Jared has lived. Wintertime here can do a number on the psyche and Jared’s psyche, well—it doesn’t need any help spiraling into depression. How would he withstand loneliness once the day ended? Work would keep him occupied and provide him with a routine. But what about after work? What about after gigs? What about in the fatalistic moments before falling asleep alone night after night?

This will be his first full winter in Maine as an adult. The longest he’d ever stayed in the winter months was a span of five days in February, some twenty years ago when his mother forced— _required_ —him to attend Grandma Opal’s funeral. Before he packed up his one-bedroom apartment on San Antonio’s West Side, he knew he had a massive-as-fuck adjustment period ahead of him—in more ways than one.

Tully encouraged him to see it all as an opportunity to spend this winter in a drastically different way from the year before. She dropped him off at the airport for his flight from sunny San Antonio, Texas to the wild blue yonder of Portland, Maine. It was three in the morning, and she vowed never to do another favor for him _ever_ again, but she _did_ give him a bone-crushing hug and some wise words before they parted.

“Picture it,” she said, her voice mellow and crystal clear. “You, but _happy.”_

The words for what Jared wants—what he will allow himself to ask—piece themselves together without a struggle or a fight. He extends his left hand out over the mattress, palm up, and looks over at Jensen. Despite the raw sound of his voice, it manages to carry with it a flutter of hope.

“Jack?”

“Yeah, Jay.”

“Do you have someone to spend winter with?”

Jensen slips his hand into Jared’s. “No,” he murmurs, the expression on his face gentle. “Not yet.”

No longer immersed in the recent past or fixated on the future, Jared relaxes.

He doesn’t feel compelled to fill in the silence.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**Jared wakes up the next morning in Jensen’s bed without any confusion about where he is or who he’s with or how he got there.**

_That’s a good sign,_ he tells himself, seconds into consciousness. What’s not a good sign, however, is Jensen’s literal cold feet.

“Oh my god,” Jared whines, curling in on himself and scooting away from Jensen. He takes a peek at the world before closing his eyes again. Too much sunlight. “What the _fuck_ were you doing? Tap dancing on ice?”

Beside Jared, Jensen laughs into his pillow. “Dammit, you guessed it. That’s _exactly_ what I was doing for the past three hours.”

Unwilling to leave his ploofy-bedclothes warmth-burrito, Jared refrains from reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “Three _hours?_ I thought you were gone for three minutes. Fuck.”

Jensen nestles back into his place in bed next to Jared. He scratches his beard, the sound of it more satisfying to Jared than he cares to admit in the moment. “Nope. Unless I discovered a wormhole.”

“Oh, you discovered _a_ hole last night,” Jared snickers. “Maybe…” He yawns. “Maybe your dick affected my sense of time. Or _maybe_ your dick unlocked a wormhole inside of me.”

“Strange theory, but sure.”

“Who do I report this to? NASA?”

“Don’t call NASA.”

“The world has a right to know about my scientific discov—wait.”

“What?”

“Three _hours?_ Where were you for three hours?”

“Down at Bunny’s, clearing the driveways.”

Jared sits up, dazed, slightly confused. His ass hurts, he needs a breath mint, and he’s fairly certain he’s left all kinds of bodily fluids in Jensen’s expensive sheets. He looks at Jensen, panic in his eyes. Real panic. Not fake panic, like that time he thought he waved at Peter Gallagher, but it actually turned out to be Daniel Day-Lewis.

“Oh, no! No, no, no, no, _no!_ I told her we’d come down _together_ and do that!”

Jensen waits a beat before responding, his eyebrows raised.

“I know you did, I was there when you called her.”

“No, I mean—” Jared throws himself backwards into the marshmallow palace of pillows he managed to hog throughout the night. He covers his face and groans. “I cannot believe you went without me _and_ you did it all by yourself! Like some selfish jerk.”

“So you’re mad because you missed out on freezing your ass off?”

“I’m _mad,”_ Jared clarifies, peeking out from under his hands and shooting a glare at Jensen, “Because you definitely did _not_ have to do that on your own.”

“Jay. I’m a grown man,” he rumbles and settles further into bed. “I wanted to take care of it, so I took care of it.”

“But I—”

“But you were sleeping so well, I didn’t want to wake you up. It was four o’clock in the morning and I was up anyway. Old habits. So I got up, hopped in the truck, drove down to Bunny’s and finished before she was up.”

“Oh god, you get up even earlier than she does.” Jared takes his hands off his face and makes eye contact with Jensen, who looks ridiculously handsome, like a short night of sleep and an entire morning performing physical labor has done him well.

Jensen smiles. His freckles stand out against the background of bedding and morning light. “That a dealbreaker?”

WIth a huff, Jared folds his arms across his bare chest. “You’re on thin ice, Counselor.”

“Oh, he knows big words at seven in the morning.”

“Thin. Fucking. Ice.”

“It was fine,” Jensen murmurs. He reaches over and nudges Jared’s chin. “Quit poutin,’ Princess. I even fixed Bun a cup of coffee before I left.”

“Are you trying to muscle me out of a job? Now _I’m_ gonna have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn. And hold up. How did you finish in an hour? It takes me an hour just to fight with the damn snowblower.”

“I usually keep a plow on the front of the truck for the season. It was in the bay furthest from the house when we got home last night, I thought you saw it. I re-hitched it before I left this morning. Who do you think was doing the driveways at Bunny’s before this year? Or my own driveway?”

_“WHAT?!”_

“Before your ass came along, I usually let her do most of the walkways—can’t win on that one with her—but I’d never risk letting her hurt herself.”

“Why didn’t Bunny tell me you had a plow? That was absolutely terrible of her!”

“She said something about how you’re ‘old enough now’ and it ‘builds character.’”

“My mom said some neighborhood kid would help—”

“And you _believed_ her?”

“Whatever! Were you just gonna let me suffer the whole season when you have a _plow?”_ Jared wags a finger at Jensen. “Don’t you dare make a joke about plowing. Don’t you fucking dare.”

“You could say,” Jensen snickers, his eyes bright, “that I _plowed_ twice today.”

Jared throws his hands up and looks upwards at the skylights. “Why me, God? Why did I have to sleep with someone so fucking _corny?_ And _helpful?_ And _thoughtful?_ Now he’s going to expect _me_ to be helpful in return.”

Jensen leans closer to Jared and joins him in looking up towards the heavens. “And we all know _that’s_ a challenge.”

Jared is used to waking up in other people’s beds. He’s used to climbing out of a bed/couch/backseat without being noticed. Over the years, he’s mastered the art of The Morning After, which so far, has also been called, The Things I Regret in Daylight. He arrived in Maine thinking he’d go about any sexual interactions the same way—not like this.

Not with kisses to his cheek, apologies whispered in his ear, and a luminous smile.

“No fair,” Jared sighs, leaning into Jensen’s touch. “That’s playing dirty.”

“You know what’s not fair?”

“Hmm.”

“I did the walks with the snowblower and you’d left me no gas.”

“Serves you right,” Jared scoffs. “And here I was going to blow you before we got going this morning.”

“What really amazes me though,” Jensen carries on, his voice golden. “Bun still trusts you with the snowblower even after that first time—”

“How do you know about that?! I swore her to secrecy, dammit!”

“Did you, or did you not, move here to build character? Or just to suck dick?”

“You know very well that I’m here to suck lobsterman dick, pal. To _hell_ with building character.” 

“You’re doing a bang-up job, let me tell you.”

Jared laughs more than he’s laughed in someone else’s bed in a really, _really_ long time. He laughs hard enough that Jensen laughs, which makes Jared laugh even more. They exchange a few kisses, made sloppy from laughter. Jared breathes Jensen in—all clean sweat, saltwater, and spice. He groans into Jensen’s shoulder, laughing still.

“Y’all are the _worst,”_ Jared snorts. “I’m having flashbacks.” He rests his head on Jensen’s bare chest, “Of being sent to a certain farm in a certain part of Texas. No more than a child was I, forced to labor, day in, day out, under the blazing summer sun, without wages.”

“Terrible,” Jensen says, and presses a kiss to Jared’s temple. “Just terrible.”

“Oh, it was awful, Counselor. Just awful. Utter agony. All based on the pretense of ‘being old enough’ and ‘building character,’ which we all know is a damned lie. And get this—it all took place under the brooding, lusty gaze of my own devastatingly, ruggedly-handsome, inappropriately-older cousin.”

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s warm, not tense. There is unmistakable fondness in Jensen’s tone. He lifts a single eyebrow, smirking.

“Too soon, too soon. Though, I suppose I was a bit of a brooder.”

_”Was?”_

“I’m married to the sea,” Jensen declares, with an exaggerated sigh. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

“And I’m married to Jason Momoa.” Jared flicks Jensen’s nose. “So that kind of makes us a perfect match.”

Jensen closes his eyes and nods. “Good. I kind of thought so.”

A few minutes pass with them wrapped up in each other. Jared questions how natural and easy their back and forth feels after so many years of silence. But he thinks back to his overnights working the crisis line and remembers why so many people waited until two in the morning to call.

That’s when people felt either the most authentic or the most frightened.

So maybe this is Jensen’s most authentic self—later in life, but valid and real all the same.

Jared asks Jensen a long list of absurd questions. Would he do it with a mermaid? _(Maybe. Probably not. Jensen knows for a_ fact _that Jared watched_ 'The X-Files.' _He should know damn well that supernatural creatures are usually monsters, not Disney princesses. But Jensen did enjoy_ 'The Shape of Water,' _so that door isn’t completely closed.)_ Has he found Nemo yet? _(Captain, or clownfish? Either way, no.)_ By growing out his beard, is he trying to channel the spirit of Papa Hemingway for nefarious, Scooby-Doo-villain purposes? _(No, but he’s willing to reconsider.)_ If successful, could they spit roast Jared? Please? _If he also manages to find and recruit Captain Nemo? Maybe. If Jared asks very nicely and says_ “please” _again, just like that.)_

“I wanted to go back to sleep,” Jensen moans, tugging a pillow away from Jared. “That’s all I wanted on my day off: more sleep, more sex, and a field trip to the steam shower in the master bath. Not necessarily in that order, but c’mon.”

“Oh my god, you have a steam shower?”

“That’s what you got out of that?”

“You forgot to mention the part where you’re gonna buy me dinner later. Keep in mind, I’m not a cheap date.”

“What’s next? You ask me for a car while you ride this dick?”

“So you _do_ know the words!”

“The sea is a lonely place, Princess.”

“‘He got a beard, well, I’m tryna wet it. I let him taste it, now he diabetic.’”

“Put him on his knees,” Jensen laughs. “Give him something to believe in.”

Jared rolls onto his stomach, stretching out his arms in front of him, facing Jensen. “Never lost a fight, but I’m looking for a beatin.’”

Christmas carols can go to hell. _This_ is what the magic of the season is all about: singing lines from “WAP” next to a man who walks like he dresses to the left for all the _right_ reasons.

“I’m glad,” Jensen says, shaking his head, “you don’t expect Shakespeare and shit.”

“Hey, I’m _classy,”_ Jared volleys back, peeking out from underneath the mess that is his hair first thing in the morning. “I’m classy _as fuck._ Y’all just don’t appreciate it.”

Jensen nods, deadpan. “You’re so misunderstood.”

In his twenties, Jared harnessed the power of confident, alluring attraction to capture the hearts— _read: cocks_ —of men. In his thirties, he built on his techniques and presentation. He expected his forties to follow a similar pattern—catch and release, catch and release, catch and release.

“You might be a keeper after all,” Jared muses. He smushes Jensen’s face because he can. He _must._ “Wook at dis widdle face.”

“Le’h go’f m’face.”

“Oh yeah? What’s in it for me?”

“Suh’prif.”

“Hmm. I’ll allow it.”

“You want what’s behind Door #1 or Door #2?”

“This is me making a back-door joke. Like fuck can I put it all together though. You’re on your own.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

“Really, _really_ sure?”

“I’m like, three inches taller than you. I can and will kick your ass, Counselor.”

Jensen pitches his voice to game-show-announcer gravitas. “The contestant from San Antonio demands Door #2!”

Jared rolls onto his side, wiggling backward until he’s little-spooned up against Jensen’s broad, lightly-furred chest. He arranges them, pulling Jensen’s arm under his neck and twining his hand and wrist around it. What he’s really saying-not-saying is that _this_ is how he likes to be held, dammit. 

Without missing a beat, Jensen reaches forward with his free hand, loops his arm over and around Jared’s slender waist, and _pulls._

Jared’s ass smacks back against Jensen, whose cock is already mouth-wateringly— _it’s a word_ —half-hard.

“Jesus fuck, that’s… _unf.”_

“Me throwing you around?” Jensen’s mouth is on the slope of Jared’s neck—kissing, licking, lightly dragging his teeth like a goddamned tease.

Jared’s mouth and brain enjoy a brief disconnect. Words are hard. Jensen. Hard. Jensen’s hard. Kiss. Like. “Mmm. Yes— _mmm._ That… I like… _that_...”

Jensen utilizes his skillful right hand and gives a little jingle to Jared’s bells—balls. He cups them, gives them a firm squeeze, then takes his hand away, ghosting Jared, his balls, and all of Jared’s hopes for a white Christmas.

In retaliation, Jared arches the small of his back, rolling his backside more-decisively into Jensen’s lap, feeling Jensen’s cock, firm and thick behind him. Jensen sucks in a breath of air, trying not to let out a groan. _So. He wants to play chicken._

A slight side-to-side shift of his hips, and Jared lets Jensen’s cock slide between the one set of cleavage he _will_ show off before June. Settled in the tight— _thank you, Jane Fonda_ —space, Jared holds Jensen there, the head nudging at his opening, still slick and sticky from the night before. Jared shudders and sighs softly, the sound carrying the hint of a moan.

Nothing yet. Jensen manages to keep his resolve. He’s shaking slightly, and he’s keeping his right hand to himself. But Jared can feel victory—it’s growing by the second. Jared wants a thorough ride on Santa’s lap, at least two hours in the steam shower, breakfast/lunch/dinner in bed, and a long-as-fuck nap next to Mr. Claus—all in that order. Whatever Jared wants, he gets. One way or another.

Jared puts his mouth to work.

He moves his hips at a leisurely pace while the tone and cadence of his voice follow along. Utilizing his drawl, he parcels out his hopes and his dreamy (if cheesy) wish list of things to do while he lives in Maine. He’d like to join Jensen on the water and get a feel for what drew him to it in the first place. He’s aware that it will mean coming in contact with burly seamen— _too easy—_ and cockroaches, but he’s made his peace with that. He’d like to visit more lighthouses and pretend he’s a 19th century widow hellbent on haunting the shit out of anyone who dares visit. At some point, it’d be fun to make s’mores by a fire pit, and figure out, once and for all, how many marshmallows he can fit in his mouth (the answer is _a lot,_ but he’d like a specific number this time). He’s cabin-curious and would not mind heading up north, where the moose roam free, to spend time eating oatmeal, reading, and figuring out how pioneers in the olden days practiced kinky sex.

The last one is a long shot, but he says it anyway. “Long Shot” seems to be his middle name, after all. Wouldn’t it be great if he could befriend a local dog for the companionship and the incentive to get his glorious ass moving on days he won't want to get out of bed? He can't afford a dog on Performing Drag in Maine Especially In The Slow Season money—unless there's a vet in the area that takes lap dances as payment—so borrowing a friend's seems to be a good compromise.

Truth be told, he’d settle for a little more hot chocolate and less coffee, a midnight dip in a hot tub for the best kind of stargazing, and one giant fleece-and-flannel robe.

Jared barely finishes his last sentence: Jensen moves his right hand up Jared’s thigh, on a direct path to Jared’s cock, giving it one long, slow, firm stroke.

“When’s your next gig?” Jensen breathes in his ear.

_Finally._

“What’s it to you?” Jared quips, stifling a moan.

Jensen releases Jared’s cock and Jared _almost_ complains—except Jensen runs his calloused palm from Jared’s shoulder, down his arm and around his elbow, to circle and grip Jared’s wrist. He directs Jared’s hand to his own cock, allowing Jared to feel how hard, how heavy, how _ready_ he is to let Earth receive her King.

“The next show,” he says more intently. “When is it?” His cock pushes against Jared’s ass—decisively with every roll.

“Shit—you want me to think right _now?”_

“You can make this easy.” Jensen punctuates his words with each push of his hips. “Or you can make this _hard._ When— _is_ —the next— _show—?”_

Somehow, Jensen managed to find the bottle of lube from last night’s activities. He flips the cap open, and before Jared knows it, they’re more than ready to have themselves a Merry— _ahem_ —Little Christmas. The fat head of Jensen’s cock works its way inside Jared, but only the head—a complete tease. Jensen knows _exactly_ how Jared will open up for him, and is all too willing to wait for it. 

When Jared doesn’t answer in a timely fashion, Jensen’s teeth are back against the side of Jared’s throat.

Jared’s mind is all _pa-rum pum pum pum_ —he tries to hang onto individual thoughts, but they keep slipping away in a one-horse, open sleigh. “I— _oh_ my god, do _that_ again—New Year’s Eve. There’s a show on New Year’s Eve. Up in Portland—”

Jensen rumbles, “Good. _Very_ good.”

And then he bites down, _seizing_ the muscles in Jared’s neck between his jaws. Jared _keens,_ high on the rush of adrenaline, gasping as Jensen works his cock inside Jared, until he’s buried, hips pressed against the plush softness of Jared’s backside. The injection of pleasure-pain into Jared’s _bad-naughty-wrong_ receptors makes his eyes flutter and he moans, loud, and shuddering. Jensen increases the pressure of his teeth, his lips deceptively soft, until he pops off with a satisfied _smack._

“Anytime,” Jared breathes, his voice raspy, “you wanna do _that_ to me, you just… holy _shit,_ you let a queen know.”

Pleased with himself, Jensen nips and licks at the bite mark he left behind, seeming not to want to surrender his prey any sooner than he has to. He pulls Jared closer and slots their left hands together where they’re twined under Jared’s chin, fingers interlocked.

“Keep stroking,” Jensen rumbles. He moves Jared’s free hand back to its assigned place. “Don’t get distracted.”

To discourage Jared from complaining—and to distract him—Jensen rocks against and into Jared. He works the angle of his hips to hit that concentrated area of nerves. Jared’s gone so long without this level of intensity, of raw attraction chased by the perfect amount of _control._ It’s like walking out into the cold—invigorating and breathtaking all at once.

With Jared repositioned to his liking, Jensen folds his knee and calf over Jared’s leg, effectively pinning Jared against him. Pressed together, chest-to-back from head to thigh, Jensen leans back slightly, splaying Jared open over him at an angle. The dance of their movement and the stretch of their muscles adds to Jared’s thirst for more contact, more action. Jensen reaches up with his free arm to get his hand up under Jared’s chin, fitting it into the vee of his thumb and index finger, and pressing gently. Jared recognizes the position and the angle, lighting him up bright, deep and crisp and even, like the snow falling in the night.

Jared gasps, trembling against Jensen, whole body shivering.

Jensen shifts his hand, fingertips skating over the muscles in the sides of Jared’s neck and throat, before resuming his previous grip. From the outside, he pushes up against the underside of Jared’s tongue, making Jared feel the exquisite change in pressure. Without ever putting any stress on Jared’s actual windpipe or trachea, Jensen works his magic to labor Jared’s breathing just the right amount. He’s still getting plenty of air—it just _feels_ like he’s not.

Then Jensen torques his hips, driving all the way inside Jared, his cock a thick, blunt force. He returns to the space he so thoroughly occupied last night, all the way in, plunging in as far as this angle allows.

Electric currents course through Jared, sparking an arousal buried so deep, he thought it was lost to him. It’s been years since he’s been with a partner skilled in the art of breath play. He’ll try most things once, not one to shy away from sexual escapades, but some things require trust. It just figures that Jensen would know, and moreover, would know how much it sizzles his bacon. 

What else does he know how to do? How soon is too soon to ask if he can sit on Jensen’s face? Is there East-Coast etiquette for that type of thing? 

_”No,”_ Jensen rumbles, with a delectable edge. “Pay attention.”

His teeth nip at Jared’s ear, exciting the sensitive nerves behind it, then he trails his lips along the bolt of Jared’s jaw. Jensen shifts his hand position, Jared’s body trapped against him, hips working his cock into Jared in a steadily-increasing grind.

“This what you want, Jay?” Jensen rasps against his ear.

“I—please— _Jack,”_ Jared’s breath is ragged as his brain scrambles to piece words together. Completely distracted by the movement of his own hand on his own cock, he bites down on his lip while his ass is plowed in firm, tight circles by the biggest cock he’s had in _ages._

Jensen’s voice curls around Jared, rough like sandpaper with want, need, and years of pent-up lust.

_“Is this—what—you want—?”_

Jared’s eyes water. He’s out of his goddamn mind—he’s happy, he’s horny, he can’t get enough of large hands, firm muscles, and the steady undulation against the mattress beneath them. _”Yes_ —Jack— _I want this—”_

“Say it _right.”_

 _“Please!”_ Jared punches out, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Please, _Sir!”_

Jensen tightens his grip with each limb of his body; Jared is locked in place against him, the only movement he’s permitted is his own right hand, flying over his aching cock in time with Jensen’s slamming thrusts.

Once more, Jensen growls, pitched low, but absolutely unmistakable, directly into Jared’s ear: _“Do—You—Consent?”_

Straining, openly weeping, Jared blurts out as much as he can manage, wheezing with each inhale. _”Yes!_ Yes, yes, _yes_ —I consent- _I-consent!"_ His orgasm builds through his entire body as Jensen winds him up, staccato jerks of his hips slapping against Jared’s ass, carving himself a place where Jared not only won’t forget him, he won’t _want_ to forget. Jared sucks in a breath, _”Please, I can’t—”_

Jensen flexes his grip, pressing up underneath Jared’s tongue, and grinds out through gritted teeth, “Say what I want to hear when you finish, Jay.”

Like a fish on a hook, Jared writhes in Jensen’s grip, but he has nowhere to go, Jensen is just too fucking _strong._

Jared whines. _“I can’t_ —I’m gonna— _fuck-fuck-fuck—”_

Pitched deep, Jared hears it, the indisputable order, as that powerful grip on his throat squeezes: _“Come for me.”_

Jared comes so hard his _hair_ hurts. His vision whites out as he shouts Jensen’s name— _The Nickname_ —into the cool air in the bedroom, where the fireplace smolders. His pitch is the sound of pure, stormy satisfaction—enough to carve stone into smooth, round pebbles. The orgasm radiates from the deepest, most intimate part of him. He empties from his rattled ribcage to his twitching cock. 

Jensen’s grip on him relaxes, from immobilizing to simply holding Jared’s body as he finds his breath again. Jared’s hand is wet with his own come, and his hips ache—slick and slippery, quaking with aftershocks. He’s exhausted, but he feels _alive,_ full-flaming-color, three-dimensional, in ways he can’t remember feeling before.

There are few people in the world with whom Jared connects on a sexual level even a _fraction_ as satisfying as this. And even fewer people in the world with whom he really likes and thinks well of. Not many people can hold Jared down, much less hold him down _properly._ And far fewer people really, truly understand domination in the way that Jared wants and needs it. It’s not just physical strength or sexual chemistry. A good dom not only possesses the attitude, the words, and confidence in their physical interactions, but compassion and empathy and intuition. The right partner crafts a three-dimensional experience. Jensen learned plenty in New York and Boston, then adapted it; shaped it to his own body, mind, and voice. Props are fun. Toys are exciting accessories. But it’s all up to the mind that controls the voice, the hands, the body. Accoutrements are _extra._

Gratitude for the time they took to grow into their own collects in Jared’s hazy mind. Gratitude for a partner who understands, who puts in the work with enthusiasm and skill, and, most importantly, who genuinely cares.

Despite the snow, the rosy-fingered dawn has bloomed and the early morning sun has crept up through the skylights, bouncing bright white light reflected off of crystalized sheets. The world makes sense this way: wrapped up—enveloped—in the heat of the man who’s loved him for so long. His whole body is still shaking with the myriad ways his mind’s been blown at this ungodly hour.

They fit each other: he is the key to Jensen’s lock.

Twenty-five years was too long. But somehow, they circled back.

Jensen murmurs calming, reassuring things against the nape of Jared’s neck. He can’t really make most of them out, but Jensen’s voice lifts a little, with praise and affirmations, as Jared becomes more coherent, and the wracking gasps subside.

“Princess,” Jensen says, the smile clear in his voice. “Let’s get you in the steam shower.”

“Carry me,” Jared whines, his own voice shot for a second time in less than twenty-four hours. “I can’t move.”

Nosing Jared’s shoulder, Jensen chuckles quietly. “I could try. You want me to?”

“No!” Jared reaches back—with his sticky hand—and lightly smacks Jensen on the arm. “Just... give Her Highness a minute after having her ass destroyed.”

“‘Destroyed,’ he says. Also, I handle live seafood all day—your come doesn’t scare me.”

“It should, it’s flesh-eating. Though also _very_ moisturizing.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And _yes!_ Destroyed. This thing—” He gives Jensen’s soft cock a quick squeeze. “—is lethal. I should buy it a leash.”

Jensen laughs again, louder this time. He sits up and runs a hand through Jared’s hair before dipping in close, just to murmur, “What makes you think I don’t already have one?”

Jared groans into his— _well, Jensen’s, technically—_ pillow. “No, don’t start. Don’t. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is spongy and bruised.”

“What’s that from?”

 _"'Futurama,'”_ Jared yawns and stretches. He waves Jensen off. “I sleep now. You may take your leave.”

“C’mon. I’ll set everything up. Once you’re in, you can sit on the teak bench.”

“Ex- _squeeze_ me?” Jared growls. “You think I want to _sit_ on _anything_ right now, teak bench, or not? Right now? After you pounded me like some sort of degenerate beast?”

“Shower first, then sleeping.”

“What if I’m hungry?”

“Bunny insisted that I bring back fresh muffins from her place. They’re on the dresser.”

“Oh my god. The blueberry ones with the crackly sugar on top?”

“Yep.” Jensen’s free hand massages each group of Jared’s muscles that he can reach. Pecs, shoulder, bicep, lats, all the way down to Jared’s quad, his top leg askew from having been trapped by Jensen’s. “Bun figured you’d be wanting them this morning, at whatever hour you happened to be ready for breakfast.”

“Huh. Well, what’d’ya know? I think she likes me.”

“Go figure. C’mon. Steam shower.”

The next thing Jared knows he’s being unwrapped from his ploofy-bedding burrito, rewrapped in a ploofy terrycloth robe, and helped into the master bathroom—a place he swears to himself he will be visiting and revisiting often based on the substantial shower enclosure. As promised, the steam heat quickly performs its magic on the muscles that were pushed during last night’s performance, then pulled and prodded during everything that followed. He’s plunked, as promised, on a teak shower bench, conveniently positioned in just the right place for water jets from three directions to proceed to reduce him to the consistency of Aunt Barbara’s neon green Jell-O salad.

Jensen disappears into the bedroom for a moment, then returns and feeds Jared bites of blueberry muffin goodness before stepping into the shower, himself.

In between bites and moans of appreciation, Jared manages to group words into sentences once more without feeling like he’s in immediate danger of passing out. “Didn’t you have to work today?”

“Yep.”

“Did I get you in trouble?”

Jensen stretches, next to where Jared is seated on the bench. He gives a snort, amused by Jared’s question. He bends and brushes the hair out of Jared’s face. “No, Princess, you did not get me into trouble. I called off.”

“Did you really? Are you even allowed to do that? Don’t the lobsters need you?”

“The _lobsters_ are happy I took the day off. I texted my boss and told him I wouldn’t be in today. He told me it was about damn time I took a day.”

“But when did you have time to call off?“ Jared is distracted by Jensen’s hands in his hair, now massaging shampoo into his scalp.

“Yesterday. Sitting in the wing-back chair in your bedroom at Aunt Bunny’s. While you were ‘taking a moment.’”

Jared, still exhausted, still on the edge of supernova sub-space, doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Jensen draws him to his feet, and moves him under a shower head mounted high enough on the wall that it must have been part of the customizations Jensen required for the house, because there’s clearance over even Jared’s head. _Tall People Problems._ Jensen holds Jared against him while the hot water rinses the suds out of Jared’s hair. Jensen eases him back onto the teak bench, slathers conditioner over his hands, and works them through the silky strands in place of the shampoo. He works out the few knots in Jared’s hair, taking his time, humming something low and sweet.

As he finishes, he bends and plants a slow kiss on Jared’s forehead. He murmurs, “Sit tight. Be right back.”

His eyes still closed, Jared’s shoulders tense up. He blindly reaches out, set off by an inexplicable spike of anxiety. “What? Why? Where’re you going?”

“Jay.” Jensen maintains a firm tone with a quiet edge to it. He kisses him again, lightly; forehead, lips, forehead, calloused hands cupping Jared’s jaw. “Easy, Princess. I’m not going anywhere. Just need to clean myself up right quick.”

Displeased, Jared huffs. “Don’t make me panic like that.”

“My apologies, Your Highness. I won’t take long. We’re going right back to bed after this. And, I hope to god, back to sleep.”

“Phew,” Jared sighs, shaky. He rinses the conditioner out of his hair and takes a peek at naked Jensen doing naked-Jensen-things. “I thought you were gonna say something like, _‘We need to talk’_ or _‘Jared, I’m turned off by that mole on your face.’”_

“That is… oddly specific.”

“I think about it a lot.”

“I like it.”

“No you don’t. No one likes moles.”

“You really wanna argue about this, huh?”

“Fuck yeah, use that Harvard degree.”

“What if I said I’d like to talk. Is that better?”

“Marginally,” Jared mutters, taking a soapy pink bath pouf from Jensen. Dread fills him up, in a much-less-fun way than he was filled up not too long ago. “You can say whatever you want to say whenever you want to say it. I ain’t chicken.”

Jensen wrings out his washcloth and sets it aside. They make as much eye contact as possible through the steam. “Not saying you’re chicken. We don’t have to talk right this second. I just figure… maybe we should hammer a few things out.”

“Pfft. I’d rather not hammer things out and hammer things _in.”_

“Look, when you drop—and you _will_ drop, it’s already happening—we can talk. Or _not-_ talk—whatever you need—but, Jay, I’m not going anywhere. And I don’t plan on letting _you_ go anywhere, either.”

Jared’s tension and anxiety ease up by a few degrees, trying to believe what Jensen’s telling him. He narrows his eyes and looks at Jensen—skeptical, unconvinced. Men don’t say, ‘I’d like to talk’ without also wondering about how they’ll let him down without causing a scene.

Jensen crouches in front of Jared, at eye level, and brings their foreheads together.

“I want to put all my numbers in your phone—my cell, the house phone, and the satphones we have on the boats for when we’re out on the water and out of cell range.”

Confusion clouds Jared’s thoughts.

Jensen sees the furrow in Jared’s brow. He offers up a shy smile, the complete opposite of the smirk he had on watching Jared struggle getting out of bed because he was that thoroughly-fucked. This smile is more like the smile he used to get whenever Jared would ask him to please, please, _please_ go for a drive at midnight on the farm.

“Then I want to ask you if we can make this a long-term deal.”

The urge to ask if he died and went to Heaven weighs heavy on Jared’s mind. How are the past forty-eight hours even real? The whole thing—the whole shebang—is like some kind of kinky, queer-as-fuck, sappy-as-shit Hallmark movie on speed.

Jared blinks, in the steam, eyes closing as he thinks. He doesn’t exactly know how to respond to Jensen. A potent combination of self-doubt, deep-seated self-esteem issues, giddiness, and excitement play with his state of mind. If he wants, he could bust out some choice lines here about, “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?”

But unexpectedly, he keeps his motor-mouth shut.

_‘Long-term deal.’_

He’d always managed to be so happy to receive scraps of time, small increments of something wonderful, because he was afraid of anything beyond that. His entire life has been one montage after another. New city, new identity. New people, new personality.

But here? Sitting completely naked in a steam shower in southern Maine?

Here, he’s himself. Everyone knows him already, including the man in front of him. There’s no mask, no persona to hide behind. No way to sweep aspects of his personality he’d rather no one see under the rug. It’s kind of a lot.

Responsible for this bout of silence, he breaks free from it. He opens his eyes and looks at Jensen.

“I’m not used to long-term, Jack. What if I fuck it up?”

In his way, Jensen answers, “You might.”

“Gee,” Jared scoffs. “Thanks.”

Jensen doesn’t miss a beat. “But _I_ might fuck it up, too. I’m no expert in long-term, either. So the way I see it…” He reaches over and boops Jared on the nose. “We might as well fuck it up together. See how it goes.”

“Just two-fuck ups, huh?”

“Two fuck-ups fucking it up.”

“You’re not gonna suddenly lose the ability to talk again, are you?”

“I told you—I prefer to listen.”

“Well, don’t listen too much.”

“You’ll tell me if I do.”

“Can you bring me breakfast in bed?”

“You had a muffin.”

“I ate pieces of a muffin you fed to me in the shower.”

“Maybe if you get out of the shower, there can be breakfast.”

 _“Fi-i-i-i-i-i-ine.”_ Jared sighs contentedly, allowing Jensen to manhandle his body into and out of the hot water jets, rinsed and made-new at every angle.

This isn’t so bad. Truth be told, it’s not bad at all.

Jensen steps out of the enclosure, wraps a towel around his waist, gathers up another, and turns off the water. “C’mon, Princess. Radiant heat, the floor is warm. Out you get.”

Jared lets himself be toweled off, and wrapped back up in the fluffy bathrobe. Muscle-memory moves his hand to his jaw to check the stubble. “Crazy question, do you have, like—?”

Jensen points to the sink countertop, where Jared’s travel case sits, incongruous in its blazing-pink glory, next to Jensen’s hipster-lumberjack shaving setup: a boar-bristle shaving brush in a stand, paired with an inlaid-wood-handled razor. There’s an old, chipped Harvard Law mug next to it, with a well-loved soap patty in the bottom.

Jared moves to the sink, humming, and unzips the bag. He gasps in delight; all his little pots of gourmet lotions and jars of luxe creams look back at him.

“Muffins weren’t the only things I got from Bun’s this morning. Didn’t know which ones you’d want so I brought everything. You’re almost out of, like, four of those, we can order you some more.” Jensen starts to towel himself off. “Let me know if you want to get manicures? One of the guys, his wife just opened her own nail salon and she’s looking for new clients.”

Jared turns to Jensen, tears in his eyes. “You did all this for me?”

Jensen smiles and looks at him with genuine affection. “If I’m around, I’m supposed to look after you. That’s never changed.”

In two swift motions, Jared steps forward and pulls Jensen in for the tightest hug known to man. Chest to chest, they hold onto each other. Jared tucks himself into the crook of Jensen’s shoulder. Jensen breathes Jared in.

Jared recalls a poem he read in a dressing room back in San Antonio, scrawled in lipstick across a large mirror, five years back. He remembers thinking to himself, _“That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”_

It does now.

He shares it with the one person who makes it make sense.

“‘She asked, ‘you are in love, what does love look like’” he murmurs, hanging onto Jensen, who hangs onto him. “‘To which I replied, ‘like everything I’ve ever lost come back to me.’”


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**At the ass-crack of dawn on Christmas Eve day, Jared finds himself on a ship.**

Okay, it’s a _boat_ , whatever, but he’s gunning to draw at least ten eye rolls from Jensen before they head back to shore and the boat/ship route seems promising.

The _Split Second_ is a 35-foot terror on the sea. Jared checks, double checks, and triple checks the security of the life vest attached to him. He did not expect to go on this endeavor without getting his hair wet—he’s a reasonable person like that—but he did not expect to _sweat._

He also didn’t expect to meet Jensen’s boss, Paul: a living, breathing, colorfully-cursing Gorton’s Fisherman archetype, complete with wind-burned, ruddy cheeks and silver fox facial hair.

Paul insisted on taking them out on the water himself. He’s been lobstering since he was fourteen and became a sternman, after being “along for the ride” since he was a little kid, back when his grandfather held the license. The year he took over the business from his father was the same year Hurricane Bob struck a blow to the industry. A lot of lobstermen got out of the business back then, they couldn’t feed their families ‘changing the water in the traps’—lobstering lingo for pulling jack shit. Through a series of loans and difficult decisions, Paul found a way to keep the business afloat (as it were), but it wasn’t easy hanging on by the skin of their teeth. Year after year of slim profits took its toll on his marriage, his relationship with his kids, and his mental health. By the time he saw profits stabilize and they had some breathing room, his now-ex-wife hated lobsters with a passion that burned with the heat of a thousand suns. 

“Gotta say,” Paul laughs, slapping Jared on the back, “sometimes I can’t blame her.”

Jared thought a lobster boat would require a crew of at least ten burly, built, chisel-jawed men sharing tight quarters on the raucous sea. He had pictured more of a Village People scenario, less of a _Perfect Storm_ scenario—though he wouldn’t complain if George Clooney decided to join them. Much like Jensen, George Clooney would look dreamy dressed in one undershirt, one t-shirt, two sweatshirts, one sweater, a pair of Carhartt double-front washed-duck work pants, Grunden oil pants, oil jacket, insulated gloves, and muck boots—all topped off with a Cowboys beanie. 

Jared’s wearing nearly the same exact combination of clothes, but feels way less confident or comfortable in them, he feels like some kind of bastard child of the Michelin Tire and the Stay-Puft Marshmallow men. He might as well start screaming that he can’t put his arms down. He does better in a leopard print bodysuit and a pair of pumps than this type of ensemble, but lobstering does not lend itself to cheeky body-con eleganza. 

This morning, it’s just him, Jensen, and Paul on the ocean blue, which doesn’t make Jared nervous at all. Nope. Also, apparently in the dead of winter, the ocean really isn’t all that blue, as it turns out, it’s kind of a slate-blue-gray with dips into charcoal and frothy whitecaps—kind of bleak. Like the sky. He’s not terrified of some random bolt of lightning striking the boat’s GPS, effectively dooming them all to a _Shining_ -type deal on the water, where one of them gradually loses their grasp on reality and dooms them to a watery grave. Or some _The Talented Mr. Ripley_ scene where he’s either suffocated or struck with an oar and thrown into the sea. That couldn’t possibly happen. Nope. Never.

The rattle of a lobster trap against the side of the boat forces Jared to stop daydreaming about Jude Law kissing Matt Damon and to start hauling up yet another batch of sea bugs.

He hopes these lobsters don’t judge him on his technique, because pulling the trap from what Jensen called the “pivotable davit,” a hoist, with pulleys, that hauls the lobster traps up out of the water onto the gunwale—is harder than it looks. The trap swings from side to side due to the motion of both ocean and boat. Every trap comes up differently. 

Sweat and the constant, light spray of seawater run down Jared’s face. He finally gets a good grasp on the trap and yanks it onto the gunwale, where he pushes it towards the man responsible for all this free manual labor.

“You’re gettin’ paid,” Jensen laughs, reading his mind as he pops the trap open. “You get to take home your own dinner.”

“No,” Jared groans, struggling with a particularly full trap on the line, “I get to take home _everyone’s_ dinner. They’re not even gonna care about the—process, _ow—_ _fuck_ —and just eat all my hard work.”

“You’re a bit green to be resentful, Princess.”

“Resentment is a sport, Counselor.”

“Well, you’re playing with the big boys now, Your Highness,” Jensen quips. “C’mon, I’m empty-handed here.”

They’ve been working this particular quarter-mile line of traps for the past hour. This line is— _thank fuck_ —one of the shorter ones, with about ten traps to it, but some can have as many as fifteen or twenty. Jared’s on Trap 8 and ready to throw a live lobster at Jensen’s perfect fucking face. How can he be in the middle of back-breaking work in foul-ass weather and still look like a goddamned _GQ_ model?

“Just… bait… the traps,” Jared scowls, successfully shoving the latest trap at Jensen. _“Bait Boy.”_

Everyone, including Jared himself, is impressed by his ability to _not_ projectile-vomit everywhere while on the boat. Everyone should also be impressed by his ability to keep all his inappropriate sea-related jokes to himself, because there are so fucking many he could make if only he could catch his goddamn breath. And it’s possible Paul has heard all of them already. Given Jensen’s “pull my finger” failure on the farm all those years ago, Jared can only hope _this_ career has taught him something new on that front.

Jensen helps Jared with the final two traps, then shows Jared again how to complete the second step. With the economy of movement afforded to him by years of practice, Jensen makes short work of measuring the four lobsters in Trap 9. He uses a brass “lobster gauge” to figure out which terrifying creatures of the deep to keep or toss, dealing with each one barehanded—alive, snapping, and wriggling, without fear or hesitation.

Jared drops the first lobster he pries from Trap 10. The second one nips him on the hand with its fucking monster claws and Jared understands the importance of Jensen making him wear the thick blue gloves. Lobster #3 doesn’t meet the size requirement, so it has to be tossed, but it resists being thrown back into the water until Jared psychically threatens it with being reincarnated on-land as the urban satchel bag from Louis Vuitton’s 2008 Spring/Summer collection. That lobster goes _flying_.

The lobsters that pass size requirements _—too easy—_ are tucked into cubbies to separate them, where they await rubber bands on their claws. Once every trap is empty, Jensen re-baits each trap with a pair of frozen, salted herrings packed into mesh bags and stuck into something called a ‘kitchen.’ In the time it takes Jared to finish re-baiting one, Jensen finishes three. Jared blames his sluggish pace on the smell of salted herring. He begins to question how the _fuck_ Jensen doesn’t smell like dead fish 24/7, because _yuck_.

Waking up at four in the morning is a little easier right now. It helps that, being the tail end of the season, Jensen works a reduced schedule—three eight-hour days—necessitating fewer occasions for Jared to rise and/or shine before sunrise. Jensen keeps insisting that Jared doesn’t have to wake up with him to eat breakfast together on workdays. When word got back to Bunny—via Jensen, that blabbermouth—that Jared emerges from bed at the same time as Jensen without kicking _or_ screaming, she accused Jared of being a pod person from outer space, or, worse, a sellout. He can get up earlier than God to follow Jensen around like a lovesick puppy, but he couldn’t get up at five to start chores at the Inn all these months?

Bunny doesn’t actually mind Jared staying with Jensen and not at the Inn, as long as it doesn’t snow. If it snows while Jared finishes his day’s tasks at the Inn, Jensen drives over and stays the night there, the two of them crammed into the full-sized bed in Jared’s room. They’ve crafted an interesting living situation for the past two weeks, filled with driving, extra bags, and a whole fuck-ton of patience.

Paul turns the boat and guides them towards the next line. The water churns around them and the motor hums right back. Voice raised enough to carry over the noise, Jensen instructs Jared on the fine art of rubber-banding. It sounds more exciting and alluring than it is: grab a bug, work the banding tool over a deadly claw, hook the band, twist, and pull. If the lobsters don’t get banded, well, they’ll do what rival queens do when they fight for territory at local venues: they’ll eat each other alive.

Due to his symbiotic relationship with the damn things, Jensen avoids getting pinched. Jared, on the other hand, doesn’t fare as well, but at least he doesn’t chuck any of the offenders overboard—which absolutely counts for something.

At the next line, they switch positions. Jensen yanks up the traps, Jared unloads and re-baits. Jensen directs him in stacking the re-baited traps on the stern and shows him how to pitch them back in without getting caught on the line and dragged into the briny deep. Not that the thought frightens Jared or anything. 

The faster they work, the less Jared concentrates on how much his entire body hurts.

Jared learns that there is such a thing as a clawless lobster. Jensen calls it a ‘bullet,’ his tone almost affectionate. Sometime around eleven, Paul doles out what Jared comes to know as the Lobsterman’s Latté: an ice-cold Bud Light. Jared drinks half, the taste of it sour in his mouth, and Jensen finishes off the rest.

When the cubbies fill up with banded bugs, either Jensen or Paul dumps them into the onboard holding tank. They pull one hundred pounds of lobster in just under an hour, making it, so far, a successful day. Jared looks at their crustacean hoard in the aquarium and thinks— _look at_ all _those fucking lobsters._

Between yanking, measuring, chucking, banding, dumping, sorting, and re-baiting, there’s always something to do. The fog from this morning lifts as the hours pass. While they work, Paul acts as both tour guide and historian by giving Jared his summer-tourists-spiel. This is, he asserts, different from his leaf-peeper-spiel in the fall, when the tourists flock in to see the changing autumn leaves. Tourism is important to coastal Maine, but there are different kinds of tourists, and some of the most obnoxious happen to be leaf-peepers—they may bring their big tourist dollars, but they also bring with them their big-city attitudes and expectations.

Back in the 1950s, when Paul’s grandfather worked the business, lobster averaged 30 cents a pound and all the traps they used were wood. Lobsters, according to Paul, are the most legitimate rags-to-riches food story in America. From “sea bugs” to the main course on a millionaire’s plate, no other form of seafood has had a better glow-up than lobsters.

Jared wonders how Paul knows the phrase “glow-up,” but the cadence of Paul’s voice, combined with his old-school Downeast accent, proves too comforting to care. While many older members of The Family speak with unmistakable New England affectation, both in sound and vocabulary, Paul’s is slightly different—rougher, flatter. It’s more in line with what Jared’s used to in Texas, and not as fast as anyone ridiculous enough to be from—or spend a large amount of time in—Boston. If Jensen had picked up a Boston accent, would Jared still have slept with him? The world will never know. Would the rest of the world find Chris Evans _as_ attractive if he had the typical Boston accent? Would Jared prefer to invite Captain America, Iron Man, or The Hulk into his bed with Thor? Clearly, Jared’s time on the water is spent thinking about the _important_ questions. 

Today’s experience proves to Jared that lobstering is for folks who don’t mind getting their feet wet. He didn’t doubt that it required ass-kicking, but the reality of it through lived experience cements it. It’s a job for those who appreciate physical work and respect the challenge of ocean life. A lobsterman’s days start early, before the first trickle of light. The basics of lobstering haven’t changed much since Paul’s grandfather’s day. Technology helps, but if everything goes to hell, a lobsterman has to act. A lobsterman ain’t shit if he doesn’t understand the tides, the churning waves, weather patterns, and the fact that they serve _the ocean_. The ocean does _not_ serve them.

At noon, Paul guides the _Split Second_ back towards the harbor. Sunlight perks everyone up as the overcast sky clears a little, making the water seem a little less gray. Clean, crisp salt air rushes through Jared’s hair the second he takes off his own beanie for a reprieve. He imagines his hair as having a tousled, runway look, not a _what-happened-to-you_ look. While Paul and Jensen work through numbers and Important Official Paperwork on clipboards, Jared observes the way the _Split Second_ cuts through the water.

Patience and hard-earned trust are the foundation of lobstering. Paul wishes they were the foundation of more things nowadays, but he’s satisfied with his own relationship to the water and at the end of the day, that’s what matters.

A good lobsterman knows every cove and inlet of his section of the craggy coast. Different harbors have different rules, understood and enforced by the elder lobstermen. This is good work and they hold onto it. It’s not as solitary as inland people would think. Paul is careful who he hires on and keeps on his payroll. The best workers are the ones who are independent enough to work alone or in pairs and friendly enough to maintain some semblance of conversation with the rest of the crew on land, their fellow pros, pleasure boaters, and tourists.

On a typical day, Paul and his crew—a total of five full-time people, including Jensen—work eight- to fourteen-hour shifts. He rotates two-man crews on the _Split Second_ during the slow season, with a second, slightly-smaller boat, _Kate’s Folly_ , in service during peak season. In the summer, he has two more crew ready to offload and package when they return to dock, and the same couple of guys trade off making the deliveries and managing pickups. One guy’s wife keeps the books and answers the phone, on a part-time basis. When times are lean, Paul will go out himself, but he’s no spring chicken anymore and likes having the company, so he’ll usually pair up with a sternman. They have to catch at least 150 pounds of lobster a day to cover the bare minimum cost of bait and gas. In the off-season, everyone works a second (or third) job or an alternate gig. Paul works as a substitute high school history teacher in the off-season, and in his downtime, readies his gear for the next season.

Jared follows Paul’s directions and heads into the wheelhouse, where there’s some room to sit behind the navigation system and the steering wheel. Jensen takes a seat beside him, while Paul steers. The water, according to the lobstermen, is calm today, which made it ideal for a “land rat” to accompany them. The water can get pretty choppy this time of year, and for a shortened day, they got a good haul.

Paul looks over at Jared and raises his latte before speaking to Jensen. “I say he earned a solid B, huh?”

Jensen turns to Jared, his eyes as expressive as ever. He smiles wide, tongue peeking from behind his teeth before he says, “I think that’s fair.”

Physically unable to move any appendage, all of them mysteriously having been turned to lead by the application of salt water mist, Jared rolls his eyes. “I didn’t puke all over y’all. I call that an A+.”

Laughing, Jensen slaps Jared’s knee. “All right, all right. You were baiting traps pretty fast by the time we were done. Would you consider yourself a _Master_ Baiter?”

_“Yes,”_ Jared snips. “I’m a Master Bait— _hey!_ ”

A few quips back and forth later, Paul upgrades Jared to a firm B+. He extends an open invitation to Jared to come back aboard the _Split Second_ —whenever he feels like joining them for a shift and getting paid in lobster, he’s welcome.

Paul plans on taking the majority of today’s haul to a handful of restaurants and a few B&Bs. He’ll tack on a holiday fee so tourists can enjoy their fresh-caught lobster bisque, broiled lobster, and lobster thermidor. In two days, he’ll come back out with his oldest son and get to the lines they didn’t cover and pack up for the season. The _Split Second_ returns to harbor and docks without issue. Jensen gives Jared the honor of ringing the brass bell in the wheelhouse when they tie up. It’s tradition.

Emptying the aquarium, Paul holds up the last lobster, dusky and mottled-brown in hue, rubber-banded claws flailing with the righteous indignity of non-consensual latex bondage. Its legs wriggle and curl, a B-grade horror-movie monster in the making. Sensing its fate, it hisses at them, angered by its future on a wannabe influencer’s Instagram, where it’s likely to be further undignified by images of its untimely end for all the world to see.

“Bunny wanted how many?”

Jensen packs up the crates Paul fills onto a pallet. “She said six, seven if you’re feeling generous.”

“Sure, why not? You think she wants some black bass?”

“If you toss ‘em in, she’ll fry ‘em up.”

“Heard your Aunt Georgina went for turkey instead of lobster again this year,” Paul muses. “What a shame, eh?”

“Yep,” Jensen answers, glancing at Jared. “Turkey’s always dry, too.”

Jared helps with sorting the bugs into their transport containers. Wary of their potential for vindictive hostility, and thankful that he kept his gloves on, he shivers as the afternoon chill sets in, despite the sun.

Finished with the holding tank, Paul hauls himself up and out of it. He tosses a couple of errant whelk shells back in, climbs onto the deck, then looks to Jensen. “Well? What d’you figure?”

Jensen holds a pencil in his right hand and taps his chin with it. “Four hundred, maybe four and a quarter.”

“Not bad. Not great, but not bad.”

“Donny and Rich did six on their run a couple days back.”

“Yeah, took ‘em fuckin’ long enough. You tell ‘em I don’t want any more fuckin’ crabs?”

“In those exact words.”

“Good.” He issues the same thundering clap on Jensen’s shoulder that he did on Jared’s. With affection in his eyes, he looks at Jensen. “Go on. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Like hell,” Jensen laughs. “We got time. Just as long as we show up with the goods.”

Paul nods and claps his hands together. “All right, let’s haul ass. Fuck me, it’s cold out. Jared, you get your fair share of lattés?”

Jared goes on to assure Paul that yes, he had his fair share of lattés. He made an actual latté in Jensen’s kitchen this morning, some ten hours ago, using the fancy Breville espresso machine he discovered on his second day there. Last year, ‘someone from something or other,’ as Bunny put it, gave it to her thinking she ‘would benefit from the stainless steel contraption from hell,’ so she foisted it off on Jensen, who uses it once a week on Sunday mornings. 

Jensen hasn’t explained (and Jared hasn’t asked) _why_ he drinks exactly two cappuccinos—whole milk, a pinch of hazelnut powder, no sugar—on Sundays and only Sundays, but Jared is more than happy to make the Breville earn its countertop real estate space.

Jensen gives Jared free reign of his home. They finished the ‘official tour’ by stuffing stockings in the guest room and Jensen’s office. Jared did not know he could be fucked so well on a leather-top, custom-built mahogany desk. (Now he knows.)

When Jared is there on days Jensen works, he spends most of his time in the great room. At first, he thought he would hang around in the den, where Jensen keeps that TV big enough to serve as an air hockey table. But after an hour of flipping through various channels and streaming services, Jared abandoned his pursuit of entertainment via television. This led him to the great room, where he took a quick rifle through the bookshelves in search of anything resembling _The Gay Kama Sutra_. The answer was, yes, _but,_ he also found David Sedaris’ _Me Talk Pretty One Day,_ and ever since, he’s enjoyed sprawling out on the sectional—doing his best to leave his own topographical indentation in it—and reading through four more books.

There have been all kinds of surprises on Jared’s exodus from San Antonio.

Paul pulls the pallet while Jensen and Jared follow. Jared keeps his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket in a vain effort to keep warm. His mind wanders to thoughts of how warm it must be inside Jensen’s back pockets. 

Inside the pier’s commercial warehouse, Paul expertly navigates the pallet jack to a workstation. As he and Jensen move in sync with each other—sorting banded bugs into well-rinsed-reused-recycled coolers—they talk back and forth about closing down for the season, next month’s harbor board meeting, an upcoming bait project with the Nature Conservancy, and, finally, everyone’s favorite topic of discussion: Jared’s ass. Maybe not _just_ his ass, but it could come up.

Paul shows off a particularly juicy-looking six-legged-two-clawed _—oh, shit—does that make them spiders?_ —specimen before asking, “What brings you up here, Jared? You better not start a trend, you two, Texas boys moving to Maine. Some of the worst leaf-peepers are from there, you know.”

Jared waves Paul off. “Those are your _Dallas_ leaf-peepers. _Anyone_ from Dallas is a fucking problem.”

Jensen does not miss a beat. “Thank you,” he says, carefully closing up a cooler. “I _am_ from Dallas and I _am_ fucking a problem.”

Oh, shit.

For a split second, Jared’s heart all but stops. Joking? Joking about _gay_ stuff? Joking about _gay_ stuff in front of _his boss?_ Joking about _gay_ stuff in front of his _straight_ boss? Joking about _gay_ stuff in front of his _straight_ boss, directly referring to his semi-incestuous relationship with his _cousin?_

Paul just laughs and pretends to slug Jensen on the arm. “That’s a good one!” He points to Jared. “You walked right into that one.”

_What the fuck is even happening?_

Suddenly—the straights are… all right? 

Jensen hands Jared one of the two coolers he’s packed for their departure—lobsters in one, fish in the other. He smiles, completely relaxed. “You get to know your crew pretty well, pretty fast around here.”

Jared shoots the two lobstermen a raised eyebrow. “Exactly how much time do y’all spend gossiping out on the boat?”

With a click of his teeth, Paul volleys back, “More than the ladies at church, thank-you-very-much.”

“Oh my god,” Jared gasps, holding the cooler close to his chest. “How much has he told you about _me_?”

“Enough to know that Georgina didn’t _have_ to order a turkey from my cousin Eddie, but she did, because up here, that’s called a, ‘Fuck You, Too.’ You two must have done _something_ to piss her off enough to change her menu right before Christmas.” Paul taps his nose. “Can’t imagine what.”

While he guts and fillets the fish for them, Paul shares that he used to be the type of local their Aunt Georgina approved of. He was set in tradition _(read: knew his place in the world)._ He thought his way of life and living was the best and only choice, and didn’t want to hear otherwise. It’s how his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather approached the world and he would carry their worldview on his shoulders until it was time to pass it to his sons and their sons.

He wraps the fish in sheets of butcher paper, working carefully but efficiently. Although he makes eye contact with Jared, it’s looser, less focused than before. 

“I remember when Leyna was born.” He holds the bundle of paper and fish in his hands for a moment before handing it over to Jensen. “That’s my first grandkid. She’s sixteen now, lives with her parents in Bar Harbor. Just worked her first job on the _LuLu_ last summer, taking folks out and running tours.”

Cleaning up the workstation, Paul offers up a quick smile. “And then I got to get used to a different way of thinking when my first grandson told me they were actually my first _granddaughter_. Been six years since I quit messing up pronouns. Eight years since I joined the PFLAG chapter up in Portland. Ten years since she made the announcement. You ever talk to a five-year-old? They’re serious little shits. Oughta be lawyers.”

Jensen jumps in with a clap to Paul’s shoulder. “Hey, I resemble that remark!”

Jared relates to the shaky laugh Paul gives afterward. It’s a grateful-for-the-out laugh. He chimes in, “Watch out, he’ll sue. Or make you watch the Cowboys on that ridiculous air hockey table he calls a television. And _then_ , he’ll make you drink that snooty imported beer he thinks he hid from me in the fridge.”

“That would be _torture,"_ Paul chuckles. 

“Unimaginable torture,” Jensen echoes, nodding somberly. 

Hand to his heart, Paul professes his undying love for the Patriots. Jared knows they’re typically referred to as the ‘Pats,’ but he just can’t bring himself to do that. He still has _some_ standards.

Jensen and Paul talk football for a minute or two before Paul takes a glance at his watch, then reminds Jensen of the time. Jensen agrees that they should get going. They have places to be, people to see, butter to melt.

Paul hands Jensen the last few pieces of fish, wrapped with care, then starts cleaning up the station. “One last thing. Before I get tired of lookin’ at Jensen’s face and send you on your way.” He looks to Jared. “You ought to know I’m not about bullshit. I don’t care for it, never have. If I don’t like something or someone, it will be known. Ain’t that right, Mr. Ackles?”

Standing with his arms folded over his chest, Jensen answers with a nod. “That’s right, Mr. Cutter.”

“There are two kinds of locals here,” Paul continues. “I’m not saying anyone’s _perfect_ or nothing. We all got good eggs and bad apples. But _my_ people put food on the table for people like your Aunt Georgina, year-round. Maybe I am ‘the help.’ But so what? My grandfather may have been a fuckin’ crusty bastard, but he knew what people like her really are— _Summer People_. And I’m holding onto that ‘til the day I die. Don’t you let them Summer People get in your way.”

Before they head out, Jared and Jensen thank Paul more than once for his hospitality and time. He waves them off, reiterates his open invitation for Jared to join them on the water, then slaps them both on the back, only to issue orders for them to go the fuck home and enjoy their fucking holiday already.

Jensen leads Jared to what he calls the “wet room,” which has, pragmatically, among other things, a tile floor that pitches towards a drain. They change out of their outerwear, pack up Jensen’s truck, and drive away from the harbor just as the snow starts to fall.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**To Jared, snow follows three patterns in Maine: 'what the fuck,' 'holy shit,' and 'oh _fuck_ no** **.'**

So far, they’re in what-the-fuck-territory, and Jensen doesn’t seem concerned. But then again, Jensen handles aquatic cockroaches— _aquatic cock, ha!_ —bare-handed, so his sense of judgment, in Jared’s eyes, is entirely suspect.

With Zeppelin playing on the radio, Jensen drives them away from the water and south towards the Inn. He steals glances at Jared when he thinks Jared’s not looking and it’s _adorable_. It makes Jared want to dance on bleachers and sing Frankie Valli songs accompanied by the high school marching band. Maybe in the summer, when the too-real threat of falling ass-over-teakettle isn’t at an all-time high.

While it’s true that Jared still misses San Antonio—not a single soul in Maine knows how to make a decent margarita, not even Jensen, because margaritas in San Antonio are unique and in a class of their own, thank you—he misses it less and less. The persistent pinch to his skin is gone. He isn’t sold on the First Congregational Church of L.L. Bean, and its patron, the warm, soft, and benevolent St. Flannel, though he does see the broad appeal. The ache to collect and hoard Fiesta Week medals has subsided, and, in its place, grows a desire to purchase as many Whoopie pies can he possibly fit in the kitchen cupboards. 

Who has time to miss anything when they could be blowing Jensen, hot and dirty, at every single possible opportunity?

Jensen pulls the truck up to the side entrance of the Inn. This _could_ be a great hot-and-dirty blow job moment, except they don’t exactly smell like snickerdoodles or blueberry pancakes. Their smell, Jared muses, is more accurately described as dead sea creatures left underneath a radiator for two weeks, then doused in human sweat, and spritzed with half a bottle of “Happy” perfume from Clinique. _Ugh_.

In place of a little mouth-to-cock action, Jared opts for mouth-to-mouth action. Before they hop out of the truck, he grabs Jensen by the shoulders and delivers a messy, playful smooch.

“Bud-Light-flavored Jensen,” Jared snickers, turning and opening his door. “Gotta say, not the worst.”

Jensen climbs out of the truck. They meet at the tailgate to start unloading stuff. Rubbing his beard, Jensen shakes his head. 

“You gonna do that all night?”

“Do what? Kiss you?” Jared looks at a non-existent watch on his wrist. “Yeah, tonight, then tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after that. Oh, but not December 30th. I’m extremely busy that day. I could pencil you in for New Year’s Eve, though.”

“I thought I reserved the 31st,” Jensen ponders, opening the gate. He hands Jared the two coolers. 

“I didn’t see your reservation.” Jared tucks one cooler under his left arm and holds onto the second with his left hand. He motions for Jensen to hand him their shared duffel, the holiest of duffels because it contains a fresh change of clothes. “Perhaps you booked using our online system. It’s been having issues. I’d be happy to accept a paper _submission.”_

Jensen, eyebrows raised, hands Jared the duffel. “You would, huh?”

More eager than he admits to feeling, Jared nods. “Yep. You have your eight-inch pencil. I got the paper and the submission. You can fill me out in the shower.”

“One-track mind, Jay.”

“Tis the season to be unreasonably-horny.”

“Thought that was Spring.”

“Nope. I’ve had to heroically quit smoking, Jack. My new man won’t let me smoke in his house, even with the windows open. And it’s too fucking cold outside to pop out. So I have to fill the void with his dick. It’s a pretty _big_ void.”

“New Man sounds like a winner.”

“Ehh, his stocking is _hung_. He seems to like when I sit on his lap. Win/win.”

The Inn is blessedly quiet and free of guests, children belonging to guests, and Rocky, the African Grey parrot that belongs to Rodney, who is staying in the Captain’s Suite. Bunny made dinner arrangements for the guests across several of the Portland area’s nicest restaurants, leaving the Inn to themselves for the evening. While Jensen and Jared drop off the coolers in the kitchen’s walk-in, Jared outlines a detailed plan to teach Rocky how to say choice words and phrases. If Jared—and everyone in a two-mile radius—has to hear Rocky’s constant squawking for the duration of Rodney’s extended stay, Rocky might as well learn to be an erotic wordsmith.

Back in Jared’s suite, Jensen points out all the reasons why he should shower first and why now would not be a good time to submit forms using his half-hard eight-inch pencil. Jared makes note of the half-hard status, and Jensen simply tells him he’ll, “take care of it in the shower.” _What a waste. What a goddamn waste._

“Shower’s too small anyway,” Jensen counters, already naked and stepping into the bathroom.

“I’ve had sex in smaller spaces,” Jared huffs, leaning against the sink counter, arms folded over his chest. “This cold turkey shit is not as delicious as it sounds.”

In the shower, Jensen hums in between responses. “You thought it’d be easy?”

“I thought I could distract myself with other things. Like you, your ass, your cock, your lips, your freckles.”

“My freckles?”

“Duh.”

“Really?”

“Jack. Don’t be dense. You _know_ what you look like. I used to think you didn’t, but now I _know_ you do.”

Jensen makes an amused sort of noise. “And exactly _how_ do you know that?”

“Please. Miss Corra doesn’t flirt with clueless people. She likes them thick, bearded, and confident. She told me so herself. Just never thought you’d dip your pen in _lavender_ ink.”

Leaving the water on, Jensen steps out of the shower and accepts the towel Jared holds out to him. He looks good enough to lick… all over, then once more just to be thorough. Unfortunately, Jensen is more attentive to details like “time” and “reality,” because he muscles Jared towards the curtain.

Jared melts under the spray of holy-hot-AF water. Immediately, his muscles thank him for the respite and his skin cheers as he exorcises the smell of bait. “So?” He calls out, listening to Jensen hum and towel off. “You and Miss Corra were…” 

On the beat, Jensen answers, “Very good friends.”

“Bullshit,” Jared blurts out, laughing. He makes the sound of a game show buzzer. “Wrong! Try again. You and Miss Corra were…”

“Why the past tense, huh?”

“Because I’m the jealous type, thank you.”

“I haven’t noticed that at all.”

“Answer or I’m wearing muck boots for the rest of your life.”

“Miss Corra and I are very good friends. I don’t hit up the bars like I did when I first moved here. But when I did, well, Miss Corra and I had an arrangement.”

“I want all the sexy details. Leave nothing out.”

“Ain’t got the time, Princess. Don’t take forever in there.”

“You didn’t even take care of your pencil in here.”

“Cold water, Princess. Works every time.” Jensen pokes at Jared through the shower curtain. “See you in the kitchen.”

So. Many. Questions.

Jared successfully completes the most generic, dull, ordinary shower he’s had in the past week. Between the steam shower in the master bathroom and the oversized jacuzzi tub in the guest bathroom, a regular shower, sans Jensen, is just… well, _sad_. 

He hums to himself as he dries off and changes into blessedly-clean clothes. Jensen selected their outfits and Jared is pleased to find his favorite cashmere sweater—the black crewneck with the horizontal charcoal stripe at the nipple line. Paired with his J Brand black skinny jeans and the same booties he wore to Georgina’s, he steps out of the suite and makes his way to the kitchen. This time, he’s not thinking of climbing fences or making a run for it in his sensible, yet fashionable, boots. 

The kitchen is nothing less than a snapshot of an upcoming Food Network cooking show featuring Daddy!Jensen, complete with neatly-trimmed ginger-grey beard, freckles, and a Black Watch plaid flannel shirt that sets off his green eyes. If the Food Network _really_ loved Jared, they’d be wise to pour Jensen into a pair of broken-in Levi’s 501s, flat-fold back the shirt cuffs, revealing his muscular forearms, and have him whisking eggs into stiff peaks— _too easy_ —to make from-scratch merengues that just _melt_ on the lucky tongue of the taste-tester. 

Not only is Jensen a downright _beautiful_ sight to see in the kitchen, he’s something of a chef. Jared hasn’t eaten so many home-cooked meals in a row since he sprained his ankle three years ago. He crashed with Tully to recover, and even though Tully complained the entire time, he knew she enjoyed cooking for the two of them. He makes a mental note to ask her for her empanadas recipe so that he can place an order with Chef Jensen.

“I have arrived,” Jared announces, gliding next to Jensen at the kitchen island, where a spread of ingredients sit, ready and waiting for their next assignments. “Is that a candy cane under your apron or are you just happy to see me?”

Jensen cracks a smile, then shakes his head. He doesn’t stop chopping green onions. “One-track mind.”

“No contest, Counselor.” Jared rubs Jensen’s shoulders for a moment, then rolls his own sleeves up to start helping. “Hey, back at the truck. Do you want me to tone down the smoochin’ and the ass-grabbin’ in front of Bun?”

Pointedly, Jensen stops chopping and sets the knife, the cutting board, and onions aside. He leans on the kitchen island and looks directly at Jared, green eyes made all the more vivid by his shirt. 

“No,” he says, decisive and firm. “Not at all.”

One of the worst things about quitting smoking is not knowing what to do with his hands ninety percent of the time. He reaches for a nearby vegetable peeler, an item he swears he knows how to use.

“Good,” Jared murmurs, tapping the peeler against his palm. His eye contact is fluttery at best. “I guess, I just worry. Sometimes I’m a bit handsy. Sometimes I’m a bit _much_.” He snorts. “You know, in case you haven’t known me my entire life.”

Jensen nods. “It’s a whole new way of knowing each other.” He takes a step forward and leans in, his body bending towards Jared the way an orchid might bend toward the sun. “I meant—are you gonna kiss me like _that_ and get me all wound up all night or are you gonna give a man a break?”

Jared snickers and closes the gap of space between them. He sweeps in for another kiss, this one more heated than the one in the truck. Tingly, satisfying pleasure lights up throughout his body. Quiet and not-so-quiet moans, sighs, and gasps fill the kitchen. Jensen smells like green onions, vinaigrette, and Jared’s vanilla body soap.

_“Please_ _,”_ Jared mumbles, chest rising and falling rapidly. He ditches the peeler and regrets nothing once he gropes Jensen’s ass—a pair of goddamn sugarplums. “Let me?”

Jensen’s resolve wavers and it’s _fucking spectacular._

The more time Jared spends near the water and in close proximity to Jensen, the more he understands his future. There might be a little fog on the horizon, some choppy waters, and days when he does nothing but change the water in the traps of his anxieties, worries, and fears. But within his range of emotions—happiness isn’t as scarce as it used to be. 

_'Yes'_ hangs on the edge of Jensen’s plush lips.

_'Yes'_ slides down the chimney and kicks Jared right in the…

“Balls,” Jensen grumbles, reaching for his ringing phone on the countertop. “That’s the signal.” 

Of course, _frustration_ remains as endless as the depths of the ocean.

Jared wilts, practically collapsing onto the kitchen island in an Oscar-worthy performance. He decides that his life is full of constant tragedy, indescribable pain, and unbearable agony.

Jensen, meanwhile, punches out an exhale, picks up the phone with his right hand, and with his left, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hi, Bunny. Yeah. Gotcha. I’m headed there in fifteen. _No_ , not sixteen. _No_ , not seventeen. I heard you—fifteen minutes. Yes, thank you for making sure my hearing works.” 

After hanging up with Bunny, Jensen points out that Jared can unwrap his package _and_ lick his candy cane _all night long_ once they’re back home. The entirety of that sentence sounds _so_ good to Jared, he hardly complains at all about his sous-chef responsibilities. On a strict deadline, they get their collective shit together and focus. Side by side, they wash, chop, toss, and shimmy along to the Christmas classic blasting out of Jared’s phone, ‘The Shoop Shoop Song,’ covered by Cher. Jensen sings into a wooden spoon and Jared twirls with a bowl of fresh mixed greens. 

By the time Jensen leaves, most of dinner is either ready or almost-. Jared kisses Jensen before they part ways. Since Jensen did most of the cooking—he prepped the scalloped potatoes yesterday like a motherfucking boss—and he’s better at driving in the snow, he splits to pick up— _rescue_ —Bunny from Aunt Georgina’s regrettable Christmas Eve soirée. Both Jared and Jensen were very obviously _not_ invited, which is a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare, to say the least. 

Blessedly free of Perry Como insisting that there’s no place like home for the holidays, Jared stays at the Inn to clean up, set the table, and take the last few things out of the oven. Cher keeps him company, reminding him that yes, he _does_ believe in life after love.

And maybe what he thought was love—in the chaos of his former life—was something closer to conveniently-timed shared loneliness with people who made him smile in the moment. All of the tears shed for the most recent knobhead and all the other knobheads before him contributed to the cultivation of something _so_ much better, _so_ much more fulfilling, and something _so_ much more authentic.

He _isn’t_ three raccoons in a trench coat masquerading as an adult, after all—it’s a fucking Christmas miracle. 

As Jared cleans up the kitchen, he calls Tully on speakerphone to wish her a Merry Christmas and thank her for her recent help. He assures her that he hasn’t run into Stephen King _yet_ , but if he does, he will pester the man for an autograph and _promptly_ send it to her. She’s in Jamaica visiting her mother, grandmother, and a horde of aunties that would give Aunt Georgina a run for her money. He tells her he misses her and he means it.

The rest of the evening unfolds smoother than the _Split Second_ on its way out to the great blue yonder.

Instead of the sounds of traffic, sirens, and construction like last year’s Christmas in Manhattan, Jared listens to Bunny thank the Good Lord for inventing Tylenol. She arrives in a flurry of I-need-a-drink and there-better-not-be-any-dry-ass-turkey-here. Bunny will cut anyone who swears or takes the Lord’s name in vain, but she frequently contends that she’s damn well old enough to ignore the rules she mandates on others. Jensen follows after her, dutifully carrying her coat and purse. Jared sacrifices a spoonful of peppermint-stick ice cream—locally-made from Parside’s up in Saco, and strictly rationed over the winter—to calm Bunny down. 

“It isn’t tequila,” he jokes, putting the container back in the freezer until dessert. “Or a cigarette, but damn, does it help calm _me_ down.”

The three of them settle into a rhythm devoid of small talk, toxic gossip, and general bullshit. Bunny compliments the way Jared set the table—he lit candles without setting anything on fire—and sincerely thanks them for their company.

“You could be anywhere in the world,” Bunny says, as they sit down in the formal dining room. Jensen pours them all a glass of red wine—fuck what they say about white wine and seafood—he’s a man who knows what he likes. Bunny raises her glass. “But you’re here with me, the two of you together. Don’t you dare think this old biddy doesn’t know how lucky she is. Cheers, boys.”

With a nod from Jensen and a flustered grin from Jared, they raise their glasses and complete the toast. 

Jensen serves. Jared passes him their plates. Bunny sits back and relaxes.

Their trio of Christmas misfits digs into perfectly-cooked lobster tails, scalloped potatoes, green beans tossed in a bacon-mustard-shallot vinaigrette, and all the wine they can drink. Jared soaks up the easy, friendly, back and forth between Jensen and Bunny, who recall the early years of Jensen’s residence in Maine, when he used to fly back to Dallas for a week at Christmas. Then came the years in between, when his parents flew north twice. Once Jensen’s father found out that Jensen and Bunny would duck out early under the pretense of running the Inn, he latched on and refused to be turned away. Uncle Ellison has even less patience for The Family’s bullshit than the three of them combined, and not without damn good reason.

It wasn’t until three years ago that Jensen and Bunny solidified their eat-and-run tradition at Georgina’s. Jensen either goes with her and they only stay for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, or, drives her there, runs an errand that lasts no longer than an hour, then brings her home so they can _both_ avoid Christmas Eve dinner with The Family. The evening winds down with dessert—apple crisp Bunny bought from a local bakery and slices of Devil’s food chocolate cake with chocolate ganache, served with a scoop of peppermint-stick ice cream. They sample, they eat, they drink their fill. Bunny pours herself a splash of sherry in an absurdly-tiny glass, while Jensen finishes off the wine, and Jared drinks a Jensen-made cocktail called “Remember the Maine”—a fascinating combination of rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, cherry liqueur, and absinthe. Just this side of buzzed, they swap memories, share stories, and laugh, laugh, laugh. They make a giddy, gleeful bunch.

Bunny relays Aunt Georgina’s barely-contained rich-white-lady-rage when Connor asked Georgina when Uncle Jared would arrive, and would he be bringing his Switch? The twins chimed in about how Jared bailed on the party before doing their makeovers, which was _so_ unfair. Gretchen’s ex-husband asked why they were having turkey—he thought they were having lobster and was it going to be dry _again_ like last time? Then Hyde suggested that Georgina should hire that nice pâté-sculptor-artist-whackadoo that Harper knows to make the hors d’oeuvres next year. Bunny does a _fantastic_ impression of Aunt Georgina—so good, in fact, that Jared’s ribs hurt from laughing so hard. 

Later, Jared washes the dishes while Jensen dries them. Bunny packs up the leftovers for them to take back to Jensen’s. She would include a note for Jensen to give to Paul, but she’s ninety percent sherry now and will _not_ risk writing something completely inappropriate, or, worse—illegible. If Jensen would please be so kind as to convey her gratitude verbally for the time being, she will send a proper thank-you note and gift basket before the end of the year. 

Bunny advises them, all sage wisdom, that one strength of women her age is writing a damn good thank-you note and sending a _damn_ good gift basket. No, two. That’s two strengths. Sherry-induced impressions are a rare, but invaluable third strength.

She wonders when winter will give way to spring next year and if Jensen won’t mind coming over to help her set up the garden. He wonders out loud if the flower bulbs he planted last year will come back, and Bunny assures him that they most likely will, they’re called ‘perennials’ for a reason. They debate on adding a water feature, uncertain if it’s a project Jensen can do by himself or if it might be worth hiring help. Jensen brings up the idea of trying barbeque for Christmas next year. He’s had his eye on a grill/smoker combo and that might be a nice change of pace.

Bunny pours them each a cup of coffee strong enough to knock out teeth.

Inn guests filter back, returning from their journeys to the Great Beyond (in this case, Greater Portland). A few couples offer quick greetings, some avoid conversation altogether. Rocky the parrot greets them with a snippet of “It’s Raining Men.”

Before Bunny gives them the ol’ one-two to the curb, she takes her time to zip up Jared’s coat so it’s properly closed and smooths out the lapels on Jensen’s jacket. She issues a stern series of orders for them to drive safe, text when they arrive, and, “I don’t want to see your butts until next evening at the earliest. _Capisce?”_

Having been (proverbially, at least) tagged and released back into the wild, Jared holds Jensen’s hand as they shuffle across the powder-dusted driveway. Lights from the Inn reflect on the snow, adding a warm glow to everything. Jared asks Jensen if he’s too sloshed to drive the sleigh; Jensen promptly replies that he had exactly three glasses of wine over the course of the entire evening and it would take substantially more than that to slosh him. Struggling to climb into the cab, Jared laughs because the world is so _soft._

Jensen helps him in and rewards Jared’s heroic efforts with a kiss. Jared leans into it, his body and his mind engaged in a melodic _mm-mmm-mmmm._

The drive home is “Sister Christian” on the radio and Jensen’s hand on Jared’s thigh. Houses situated further from the road dot the landscape like far-off pats of butter. Jared provides a running commentary explaining his preference in lobster rolls. He doesn’t understand the apparently-age-old battle, because both are, in his opinion, equally good. Why can’t both be good? Why fight? There’s a lobster roll for everyone. ‘Live and let live,’ as the straights like to say. Given the choice between lobster meat tossed in hot butter or mixed with mayonnaise, he’ll eat either—or _both_ —especially if someone else is paying.

All the while, just like he said, Jensen prefers to listen.

And that’s quite all right with Jared.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

**Soon enough, the lights on the porch railing come into view from the road, visible through the trees as the road winds.**

Bundled up in his coat, Jensen’s hand now on his upper thigh, Jared thinks back to his first night here, after his gig at the East Street Bar. He smiles to himself. There’s a lot he’d still like to do here in Maine, and New England in general—take a bougie trip on a charter yacht, traipse through Acadia National Park and catch both the sunrise and the sunset, take a moose-spotting tour in Baxter State Park, sashay over to the Bush compound on Walker’s Point dressed in full drag, and stay a week at one of the local queer-owned B&Bs on Bunny’s pre-approved list.

But no matter the activity or the pursuit, his mind circles back to this particular truck parked in this particular garage.

Descending elegantly from the passenger seat, Jared blurts out, “Jack, I want you to park your big Mack truck right in my little garage.”

From the other side of the truck, Jensen answers, smirking, “We’re not in public, but I can make a scene.”

“‘I don’t _cook,"_ Jared giggles, grabbing his duffel bag from the truck bed. He pops his hips to emphasize his various important points. “‘I don’t _clean_ , but let me tell you how I got _this ring.’”_

Jensen meets Jared, face to face, right in front of the tailgate. The expression on his face is one of focus and confidence—right eyebrow raised, chin up. He licks his lips, his eyes flit to Jared’s mouth before making eye contact once more. 

“I don’t know,” Jensen banters back. “You did plenty of cooking today, and those dishes didn’t wash themselves.”

“Then why,” Jared whines, trying to not fall flat on his face in the dark breezeway, “do I not have a ring?”

“Patience,” Jensen answers, coming— _bringing_ —up the rear. “That’s why.”

“Don’t be such a _jerk_ , Jensen, it’s Christmas. Fucking hell, it’s dark in here. Where the hell is Tinkerbell when a queen needs her?”

Unhelpful and wholly-unsympathetic to Jared’s plight, Jensen chimes in, “You know where the light switch is.”

While the statement is true—and Jared knows exactly how many steps it is to the kitchen island—it does not make navigating the dark breezeway in heels and his present buzzed condition any easier. Jared tosses off his boots and shucks his coat, hanging it on what has become _his_ coat hook. He walks through the small room with less assurance than he had twelve hours ago on the rolling deck of the _Split Second_ and drops his duffel in its usual place. 

Turning to the left, about to scold Jensen into investing in a “smart” light system so they don’t become the next victims of a B-horror movie, however, the words screech to a halt in his mouth. He spots a triangular cluster of light in the otherwise-dark great room—in the corner where the French doors to the covered porch meet the south wall. 

_That’s new._

In the kitchen, Jensen packs away the leftovers. The brief sliver of light from the fridge disappears. He joins Jared at the island, arms crossed over his chest, the outline of his form just-visible from the faint light of the moon trickling in from the kitchen windows.

Relationships require work. There are two types of work Jared with which is most familiar: either they work together, train themselves in the art of intimacy, and cope with misunderstandings; or, they don’t or won’t commit to the work, remain complacent with short-sighted gratification, and struggle when their behaviors and expectations don’t align.

It’s all work. Constructive and… not. But one type of work allows the connection to develop and sets the scene for inclusion, freedom, and genuine affection. The other? It operates around frustration and breeds resentment.

There’s nothing in the rules, however, that says the work can’t be joyous.

Blue lights stand out the most from the red and green and gold on the LED strings wrapped in an artful spiral around a genuine, bona fide, electrified, seven-foot-tall real, live Christmas tree. Jared can smell the scent of fir— _real_ fir—from where he’s standing.

_“Jack—?”_ Jared gasps, his right hand on his chest. “Are you Santa Claus?”

Jensen bursts out laughing, doubling over, clutching his middle, and shakes his head. “The fuck, Jay,” he muses, his voice vibrant. “Yes. Well, first I was Scott Calvin, but then I murdered Santa and stole his identity. Definitely a thing I did.” 

_“What.”_

“I’m not Santa,” Jensen clarifies, still laughing. “But I did have the help of some elves.” He takes a few steps forward and motions for Jared to join him. “Somewhat _bossy_ elves, but elves all the same.”

The tree glows merrily within the soft, familiar darkness of the great room. On closer inspection, the tree’s sweetly-scented branches hold up a small assortment of ornaments—a couple from Texas, a handful from Maine, plus one in the shape of each state, side-by-side. Jared spots a lobster and a high-heeled boot perfectly situated next to each other, right above a football and tube of lipstick. Red and silver ribbon complete the tree’s breathtaking look.

Snow flurries must have followed them inside, because _goddammit,_ there’s something in Jared’s eyes.

“Don’t cry, shopgirl,” Jensen murmurs, gently placing his left hand on Jared’s shoulder. “Don’t cry.”

The dam breaks. Jared sobs, eyes wet—laughing at the same time. 

“You did not just—” He swats at Jensen. “Jack!”

Exceedingly pleased with himself, Jensen stands with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his feet, all _aw-shucks,_ and admires the tree. “Yeah, I reckon you like it.”

Jared pulls Jensen in for a hug. “If I could hug the tree without causing it and myself bodily harm, I would.” He noses the crook of Jensen’s shoulder, his voice drops to a hush, wavering. “This is… I can’t even.”

A smile clear in his tone, Jensen rumbles, “Figured we might as well start the first one off right.”

“First of many,” Jared adds, arms resting over Jensen’s shoulders. They stand nose to nose, toe-to-toe in the dark. The lights cast the warmest glow over Jensen. Jared kisses him and pours every ounce of gratitude he possesses into it.

Relationships are work. Sometimes the work is waking up at four in the morning to have breakfast together. Sticking post-it notes to the driver’s side door for someone to discover before heading to work. Discussing the books on the shelves for hours, curled up together on the sectional, underneath approximately sixty-nine knitted throw blankets. Sharing the same bed, the same bathroom, the same house with remarkable ease. Fixing meals side-by-side with music on in the background, knowing there’s no shortage of albums to play next. Spending hours in bed figuring out further configurations of their physical forms. Committing to buying lube in bulk from now on. Going on a lobstering field trip and the smell of dead fish constantly keeping him two seconds away from projectile vomiting in front of—or possibly on—the love of his life. 

And sometimes the work is just showing up.

Jared ends their kiss on a high note.

He bumps his nose against Jensen’s nose. “I wanted it to be you, Jack,” he sighs, his voice totally _not_ wavering. “I wanted it to be you so badly.”

Jensen smiles and ruffles Jared’s hair. He presses a chaste— _chaste_ —kiss on Jared’s lips before reciting, 

_“I wanna thank you for letting me fall in love with you and then decide to start a pop punk band.  
“I wanna thank you for listening to all the mixes I’ve made you, or at least pretending to sort of like them. I wanna thank you—”_

Another kiss.

_“—for wanting me to be me, but happy.”_

With a dreamy sigh, Jared shakes his head. “What’s that from?” 

“I’ll read the rest of it to you later.” Jensen slips his left hand into Jared’s right hand and interlocks their fingers. He looks back at the tree. “You think Santa will be mad if we open one present right now?”

“Santa owes me, bud,” Jared scoffs and tosses his hair over his shoulder. “Let him try and stop me.”

They part, only to each bring one— _exactly one_ —gift out of hiding. From the pantry, Jensen’s voice reaches Jared in the den. He reveals the secret identities of the other elves that helped with his Christmas mission—led by Paul and Bunny. Bunny had procured the ornaments, while Paul called in a favor from his nephew, who works at the Gagnon family’s tree farm. With the help of Jensen’s crewmate, Neil, Paul hauled the tree over promptly after Jared and Jensen left the harbor. While Jared and Jensen were at Bunny’s, Keira snuck in with the ornaments and the rest of the decorations and worked her magic. 

Jared and Jensen stand face to face, arms behind their backs when they reconvene in front of the tree.

“You did _all_ that for _me,"_ Jared says, extending his drawl, his eyes all but two pieces of pink cardboard cut into heart shapes. “All that trouble for little ol’ me?”

“Weren’t no trouble, ma'am,” Jensen replies, drawl just as deep. “Anythin’ for a lady.”

They’re _so_ doing the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about tonight.

They reach the decision to open the presents as diplomatically as possible—at the same time. Jared makes a joke about how they can come together _at the same time_ in the very, very near future. Jensen rolls his eyes. 

Jared officially retires from his reputation of gobbling up men the way ordinary men gobble up peanuts. _Nuts to them._ Because Jensen’s Christmas present is the final nail in the coffin to Jared’s single life. 

A new shaving kit.

A brand-spankin’-new, monogrammed, lavender leather Dopp kit, complete with locally-sourced lavender oil, gourmet shaving cream, locally-handcrafted balm, a styptic pencil, and a five-blade razor with pink chrome plating.

Jared hugs the shaving kit to himself and looks to Jensen. Jensen looks at Jared’s gift to him and looks back at Jared.

“So?” Jared snickers, trying not to laugh too hard. “We can start using it tonight, if you _really_ want.” 

In the morning, they’ll exchange a few more gifts, call the elves to say thank you, make breakfast, watch “The Birdcage”—during which Jared will blow Jensen so that Jensen’s gay card can arrive in time for New Year’s Eve—and then retreat to bed for the rest of forever.

But right now—Jensen gives Jared a single raised eyebrow and a look of utter disbelief as he holds up a leather gag.

Jared shrugs his shoulders and smiles, looking up at the ceiling. “You _know,"_ he muses, as innocent as anything. “For _me._ Because sometimes I talk too much and you should definitely punish me for it.”

A beat passes without any response from Jensen. 

“Jack?” Jared clings to his new shaving kit. “Hey—say something. You hate it. You have one already. Something.”

At last, Jensen smiles. He shoots Jared a _smoldering_ look-and-a-half. Then, in a perfect deadpan, he inquires, “Is it _only_ for use in the bedroom?”

Jared loses his shit. But it’s Christmas, so his shit is filled with magic and cheer.

All is— _more or less_ —calm, all is bright. They’re about to have a _fabulous_ silent night.

* * * * *

**Author's Note:**

> helloooo my dears! happy 2021! i'm late (when am i not), but you know, i think we need fluff year-round. so here we are.
> 
> BIG HUGE THANKS to faegentry, who co-wrote this with me. we wrote our hearts out for this fic, often working until 5 AM. a huge round of applause to her.
> 
> big big thank yous to beta C for her help with read throughs. big thank you to amanda for inspiration. and a ginormous thank you to jessie for pitching this scene/setting to me in the first place. <3
> 
> enjoy, my dears! comments are love. :D
> 
> FaeGentry says: Okay, let's be REAL clear here-- it's my fault this fic is 'late.' Compo67 said, 'I wanna do this wacky AU one-off for a Christmas schmoop special treat for the peeps.' I said, 'ZOMG YOU HIT ON LIKE NINE TOPICS ON WHICH I HAVE DIRECT AND SPECIFIC SUBJECT AREA EXPERTISE,' and 'you gotta flesh this out!' Compo67 laid out this sandbox with a little castle in the corner and I'm like, "DUDE, LOOK AT ALL THIS SAND!' 'DUDE! LOOK AT ALL THESE TOYS!' 'OMG DUDE I LOVE BUILDING SANDCASTLES!' So what started as a 2K-word-idea rounds out, guys, gals, and non-binary pals, to 43K+ words in eleven chapters. (There's so much more material, there will be sequel/s, timestamps, vignettes, and flashbacks-- eventually.) Big thanks to Compo67 for trusting me with creating content-- not just copyediting what they create (which, not gonna lie, is a JOY in and of itself!).


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